; 
v  >  m 


i 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


School  of  the  Woods 


L^^y^^ 


/  X 


'THERE   AT  A  TURN   IN  THE  PATH,    NOT  TEN  YARDS 
AHEAD,   STOOD   A   HUGE   BEAR." 


SCHOOL  or 

THE  WOODS 

Some  Life  Studies  of  Animal  Instincts 
and  Animal  Training    %  ^  %    By 

WILLIAM  J.LQNG 

Author  of  BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD 
FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 
WOOD  FOLK  SERIES 


Q    1®    S3  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

CHARLES  COPELAND 


BOSTON     U.S.A.  AND    LONDON 

G1NN   AND    COMPANY 

THE   ATHENALU/n     PRESS 


« • 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 
BY  WILLIAM   J.  LONG 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 
34.12 


n 


\_\bv6Or 


M350007 


OST  of  the  following  sketches  were 
made  in  the  woods,  with  the  sub- 
jects themselves  living  just  outside  my  tent 
door.  They  are  all  life  studies,  and  include 
also  some  of  the  unusual  life  secrets  of  a 
score  of  animals  and  birds,  —  shy,  wild  crea- 
tures, mostly,  that  hide  from  the  face  of  man 
and  make  their  nests  or  their  lairs  deep  in 
the  heart  of  the  wilderness. 

So  far  as  the  sketches  have  any  unity,  they 
are  the  result  of  an  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
writer  to  get  at  the  heart  of  things  and  find 


vu 


the    meaning  of  certain  puzzling  ways   of 

birds  and  beasts.     A  suggestion,  at  least,  of 

... 
that  meaning,  and  also  an  indication  of  the 

scope  and  object  of  this  book,  will  be  found 
in  the  first  chapter,  the  Introduction  to  the 
"  School  of  the  Woods? 

As  in  previous  volumes,  the  names  herein 
used  for  birds  and  animals  are  those  given 
by  the  Milicete  Indians.  I  use  these  names 
partly  for  their  happy  memories  ;  partly  for 
the  added  touch  of  individuality  which  they 
give  to  every  creature;  but  chiefiy  because 
they  have  the  trick  of  bringing  the  animal 
himself  before  you  by  some  sound  or  sugges- 
tion. When  you  call  the  little  creature  that 
lives  under  your  doorstep,  that  eats  your 
crumbs  and  that  comes  when  you  whistle 
certain  tunes,  a  common  Toad,  the  word 
means  nothing.  But  when  Simmo  speaks  of 
K'dunk  the  Fat  One,  I  know  something  of 
what  the  interesting  little  creature  says,  and 
just  how  he  looks. 

Two  or  three  of  these  studies  have  already 
appeared  in  various  magazines.  All  the  rest 


come  direct  from  my  old  notebooks  and  wil- 
derness records  to  these  newer  pages,  where 
the  skillful  pencil  of  my  friend  Mr.  Charles 
Copeland  makes  the  animals  live  again  and 
peep  at  me  shyly  from  behind  old  mossy  logs, 
or  glide  away  into  their  leafy  solitudes,  halt- 
ing, listening,  looking  back  at  me  inquisitively 
— just  as  they  did  in  the  wilderness. 

WILLIAM  J.    LONG. 

Stamford,   Conn., 
September,  1902. 


IX 


j 


d 


KaS*3£5S^ 

tsS*EBft& 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  SCHOOL 
WHAT  THE  FAWNS  MUST  KNOW 
A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT     . 

ISMAQUES    THE    FlSHHAWK 

A  SCHOOL  FOR  LITTLE  FISHERMEN 
THE  PARTRIDGES'  ROLL  CALL 
WHEN  YOU  MEET  A  BEAR 
QUOSKH  THE  KEEN  EYED 
UNK  WUNK  THE  PORCUPINE  . 
A  LAZY  FELLOW'S  FUN  . 
UMQUENAWIS  THE  MIGHTY 
AT  THE  SOUND  OF  THE  TRUMPET 
THE  GLADSOME  LIFE       . 
How  THE  ANIMALS  DIE  . 
GLOSSARY  OF  INDIAN  NAMES 


"  THERE  AT  A  TURN  IN  THE  PATH,  NOT  TEN  YARDS  AHEAD, 

STOOD  A  HUGE  BEAR."        ....         Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"THE  WHITE  FLAG  SHOWING  LIKE  A  BEACON  LIGHT  AS 

SHE  JUMPED  AWAY" 37 

"  HER  EYES  ALL  ABLAZE  WITH  THE  WONDER  OF  THE 

LIGHT"  .........  61 

"  PRESENTLY  THEY  BEGAN  TO  SWOOP  FIERCELY  AT  SOME 

ANIMAL"  .........  89 

"GRIPPING   HIS    FlSH    AND  pip-pipping  HIS   EXULTATION"       IO; 
"THEY  WOULD  TURN  THEIR  HEADS  AND  LISTEN  INTENTLY"       133 

"A  DOZEN  TIMES  THE  FISHER  JUMPED,  FILLING  THE  AIR 

WITH  FEATHERS" 205 

"  BOTHERS  AND  IRRITATES  THE  PORCUPINE  BY  FLIPPING 

EARTH  AT  HIM  " 227 

"  PLUNGING  LIKE  A  GREAT  ENGINE  THROUGH  UNDER- 
BRUSH AND  OVER  WINDFALLS"  ....  255 

"A  MIGHTY  SPRING  OF  HIS  CROUCHING  HAUNCHES  FIN- 
ISHED THE  WORK" 301 

"TROTS  TO  THE  BROOK  AND  JUMPS  FROM  STONE  TO 
STONE  " 


A  LITTLE  WOOD  WARBLER  WAS  SITTING  ON  A  FROND 
OF  EVERGREEN  " . 


323 


349 


V 


i* 


years  ago  the  writer  saw, 
for  the  second  time,  a  mother 
otter  teach  her*  unsuspecting  little 
ones  to  swim  by  carrying  them  on 
her  back  into  the  water,  as  if  for  a  frolic,  and 
there  diving  from  under  them  before  they 
realized  what  she  was  about.  As  they  strug- 
gled wildly  in  the  unknown  element,  she  rose 
near  them  and  began  to  help  and  encourage 
them  on  their  erratic  way  back  to  the  bank. 
When  they  reached  it,  at  last,  they  scrambled 
out,  whimpered,  shook  themselves,  looked  at 

3 


Onffie  Way 

X,          ^7       " 

^/OL^I 


5*     SCHOOL  Of 

the  river  fearfully,  then  glided  into  their  den. 
Later  they  reappeared  cautiously;  but  no 
amount  of  gentle  persuasion  on  the  mother's 
part  could  induce  them  to  try  for  themselves 
another  plunge  into  the  water;  nor,  spite  of 
her  coaxing  and  playful  rolling  about  in  the 
dry  leaves,  would  they  climb  again  upon 
her  back  that  day,  as  I  had  seen  them  and 
other  young  otters  do,  twenty  times  before, 
without  hesitation. 

Now  to  me,  as  I  went  home 
through    the   twilight   woods 
thinking  it  all  over,  the  most 
suggestive  thing  in  the  whole 
curious  incident  was 
&          this :  that  I  had 
been  taught  to 
swim  myself  in 
exactly   the 
same  way  by  a 

bigger  boy  —  with  less  of  help  and  more  of 
hilarity  on  his  part,  and  a  great  deal  more 
of  splashing  and  sputtering  on  mine,  than 
marked  the  progress  of  the  young  otters. 


THE  WOODS      & 

That  interesting  little  comedy  by  the  quiet 

river,  one  of  the  thousands  that  pass  every  ^      ~>     ,  _ 
j  * •    j  •     ^  *    &  \  Onffielvby 

day  unnoticed  in  the   summer   woods,  first  fo  School 

opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  all  wild 
creatures  must  learn  most  of  what  they 
know  as  we  do;  and  to  learn  they  must  be 
taught.  I  have  had  that  fact  in  mind  in 
gathering  together  from  my  old  notebooks 
and  summer  journals  these  sketches  of  animal 
life,  which  group  themselves  naturally  about 
one  central  idea,  namely,  the  large  place  which 
early  education  holds  in  the  life  of  every 
creature. 

That  animal  education  is  like  our  own, 
and  so  depends  chiefly  upon  teaching,  may 
possibly  be  a  new  ^suggestion  in  the  field  of 
natural  history.  Most  people  think  that  the 
life  of  a  wild  animal  is  governed  wholly  by 
instinct.  They  are  of  the  same  class  who 
hold  that  the  character  of  a  child  is  largely 
predetermined  by  heredity. 

Personally,  after  many  years  of  watching 
animals  in  their  native  haunts,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  instinct  plays  a  much  smaller 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

part  than  we  have  supposed;  that  an  ani- 
f)  ff  W  mal's  success  or  failure  in  the  ceaseless 
struggle  f°r  life  depends,  not  upon  instinct, 
but  upon  the  kind  of  training  which  the 
animal  receives  from  its  mother.  And  the 
more  I  see  of  children,  the  more  sure  am  I 
that  heredity  (only  another  name  for  accumu- 
lated and  developed  instincts)  plays  but  a 
small  part  in  the  child's  history  and  destiny ; 
that,  instead,  training  —  early  training  —  is 
the  chief  factor ;  that  Loyola,  with  a  profound 
wisdom  in  matters  childlike,  such  as  the 
world  has  rarely  seen,  was  right  when  he 
said,  in  substance  :  "  Give  me  a  child  till  he  is 
seven  years  old,  and  it  matters  not  much  who 
has  him  afterwards.  He  is  mine  for  time 
and  eternity."  Substitute  seven  weeks  for 
seven  years,  and  you  have  an  inkling  of  the 
unconscious  thought  which  governs  every 
little  mother  in  the  wilderness. 

To  indicate  the  probable  truth  of  this 
position,  there  are  certain  facts  and  traits 
of  animal  life  which  are  open  to  even  a 
casual  observer  in  the  woods  and  fields. 


THE  WOODS      ® 

Those  young  birds  and  animals  that  are 

*7 

left   by  sad  accident,   or  sadder  willfulness,     '      „, 
without  their  mothers'  training  profit  little   *^  SrhnoS  - 
by  their  instincts.     They  are  always  first  to 
fall  in  the  battle  with  the   strong.     Those 
alone   that  follow   their  natural  leaders  till 
they  learn  wisdom  live  to  grow  up  in  the  big 
woods.     Sometimes,  in  the  course  of  a  long 
summer,  birds  and  animals  that  see  their  first 
offspring  well  trained  produce  a  second  brood 
or  litter.    The  latter  are  generally  abandoned, 
at  the  approach  of  winter,  before  t 
simple  education  is  half  completed. 
Left  with  their  instincts 
and  their  imperfect 
training,  they  go  to  feed 
nature's  hungry   prowl- 
ers; while  the  better 
trained  broods  live  and 
thrive  in  the  same  woods, 
amid  the  same  dangers.    More- 
over, domestic  animals,  which 
have    all    their    wild    instincts 
but  none  of  the  wild  mother's 


9     SCSfOOL  OF 

~  training,  far  from  profiting  by  their  human 
O  ff»  Vt&v  associati°n>  are  alm°st  helpless  when,  by 
School  cnance>  they  are  lost  or  must  take  up  the 
old,  free  life  of  the  woods  again.  Instinct 
profits  them  nothing ;  they  can  neither  catch 
their  food  nor  hide  from  their  enemies  as  well 
as  their  wilder  kinsfolk,  and  they  are  the  first 
to  go  down  under  the  swoop  or  spring  of 
hawk  or  wild-cat. 

In  a  more  specific  way  one  may  find  the 
same  idea  suggested  everywhere  in  the  woods. 
I  watched  five  or  six  mother  caribou,  one 
afternoon,  teaching  their  little  ones  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  plain  social  regulations 
and  rules  of  conduct.  Up  to  that  time  the 
young  had  lived  each  one  with  its  mother  in 
lonely  seclusion,  as  all  wild  creatures  do, —  an 
excellent  plan,  by  the  way,  with  a  suggestion 
in  it,  possibly,  for  human  mothers.  Now 
they  were  brought  together  for  the  first  time 
in  preparation  for  their  winter  life  on  the 
barrens,  when  all  caribou  run  in  herds. 

The  mothers  brought  them  to  a  natural 
opening  in  the  woods,  pushed  them  all  out 


A^ 


^'tev: 


THE  WOODS      * 

into  the  center  by  themselves,  and  left  them 

to  get  acquainted  —  a  slow,  cautious  process,  ft     jfi     r^s 

with  much  shyness  and  wonder  manifest  on  fo  School 

the  part  of  the  little  caribou.    Meanwhile  the 

mothers  watched  over  them  from  the  shadows, 

encouraged  the  timid  ones,  and  pushed  apart 

or  punished  those  that  took  to  butting  and 

bossing.     Then,  under  guise  of  a  frolic,  they 

were  taught  to  run  in  groups  and  to  jump 

fallen  trees,  —  a  necessary  but  still  a  very   % 

difficult  lesson  for  woodland  caribou, 

whose  home  is  now  in  the  big 

woods,  but  whose  muscles  are  so 

modified  by  previous  centuries 

on  the  open  Arctic  plains  that 

jumping   is    unnatural,  a'nd  so 

must  be  taught  with  much  care 

and  patience. 

Again,  you  find  a  little  fawn  hidden 
in  the  woods,  as  described  in  the  next  chapter, 
and  are  much  surprised  that,  instead  of  run- 
ning away,  he  comes  to  you  fearlessly,  licks 
your  hand  and  follows  you,  calling  wistfully,    ^>\ 

as  you  go  away.     You  have  yet  to   learn,          ^ 

yv^ 

>y^x 


-N 


10 

Onffie  Way 
~"/<a  School 


^ 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

perhaps,  that  fear  is  not  instinctive;  that 
most  wild  creatures,  if  found  early,  before 
they  have  been  taught,  have  no  fear,  but 
only  bright  curiosity  for  one  who  approaches 
them  gently. 

A  few  weeks  later,  while  prowling  through 
the  woods,  you  hear  a  sudden  alarm  blast,  and 
see  the  same  fawn  bounding  away  as  if  for 
his  life.  You  have  not  changed ;  your  gentle- 
ness is  the  same,  your  heart  as  kind  to  every 
creature.  What  then  has  come  over  the  son 
of  Kish  ?  Simply  this :  that  one  day,  while 
fawn  was  following  his  mother,  a 
scent  that  was  not  of  the 
woods  stole  in  through  the 
underbrush.  At  the  first 
sniff  the  doe  threw  up  her 
head,  thrust  her  nose  into 
the  wind,  snorted,  and  bounded 
<!,.  away  with  a  sharp  call  for  the  fawn 
to  follow.  Such  a  lesson  rarely 
needs  to  be  repeated.  From  that  moment 
a  certain  scent  means  danger  to  the  fawn, 
and  when  the  friendly  wind  brings  it  to  his 


£ 

/>    9 


<AV 


THE  WOODS      & 

nostrils  again  he  will  bound  away,  as  he  was 

taught  to  do.     And  of  all  deer  that  flee  at   ^      ,*>     r  * 

'      .       ...  Onffielt&y 

our  approach  in  the  wilderness,  not  one  in  ten  fo  School 

has  ever  seen  a  man  or  suffered  any  harm ; 
they  are  simply  obeying  one  of  their  early 
lessons. 

There  is  a  simpler  way  still,  in  which  you 
may  test  the  theory.  Find  a  crow's  nest  in 
the  spring  (I  choose  the  crow  because  he  is 
the  wisest  of  birds,  and  his  nest  is  not  hard  to 
find)  and  go  there  secretly  when  the  young 
are  almost  ready  to  fly.  One  day  you  will 
see  the  mother  bird  standing  near  the  nest 
and  stretching  her  wings  over  her  little  ones. 
Presently  the  young  stand  up  and  stretch 
their  wings  in  imitation.  That  is  the  first 
lesson.  Next  day,  perhaps,  you  will  see  the 
old  bird  lifting  herself  to  tiptoe  and  holding 
herself  there  by  vigorous  flapping.  Again 
the  young  imitate,  and  soon  learn  that  their 
wings  are  a  power  to  sustain  them.  Next 
day  you  may  see  both  parent  birds  passing 
from  branch  to  branch  about  the  nest,  aided 
by  their  wings  in  the  long  jumps.  The  little 


12 


Onffie  Way 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

ones  join  the  play,  and  lo !  they  have  learned 
to  fly  without  even  knowing  that  they  were 


All  this,  of  course,  refers  only  to  the  higher 
forms  of  animal  life,  of  which  I  am  writing. 
The  lower  orders  have  no  early  training,  sim- 
ply because  they  need  to  know  so  little  that 
instinct  alone  suffices.  Each  higher  order, 
however,  must  know  not 
only  itself  but  all  about 
the  life  below,  on 
'*  which  it  depends 
for  food,  and  some- 
thing  of  the  life 
above,  from  which 
it  must  protect  itself  by  speed 
or  cunning;  and  there  is  no 
instinct  sufficient  for  these  things.  Only  a 
careful  mother  training  can  supply  the  lack, 
and  make  the  little  wild  things  ready  for 
their  battle  with  the  world. 

So  far  as  I  have  observed,  young  fish 
receive  no  teaching  whatever  from  their 
elders.  Some  of  them  follow  the  line  of 


THE  WOODS      O 

least  resistance  and  go  down  stream  to  the 

sea.     When     the     time     for     reproduction    ^      ~,     ¥  , 

-    ,   .,    .  u    i    r  Onffiewby 

arrives  they  find  their  way  back  from   the  fo  School 

sea  to  the  same  river  —  always  the  same 
river  —  in  which  they  were  hatched.  This 
double  migration  has  been  supposed  to  be 
purely  a  matter  of  instinct.  I  am  not  so 
sure.  From  studying  trout  and  salmon  par- 
ticularly, and  from  recent  records  of  deep-sea 
trawling,  I  think  that,  instead  of  following 
instinct,  they  follow  the  larger  fishes  from 
the  same  river,  which  are  found  in  shoals  at 
greater  or  less  distances  offshore. 

This  is  certainly  true  of  the  birds.  With 
them  the  instinct  to  migrate  is  a  mere  im- 
pulse, hardly  more  intelligent  than  that  of 
rats  and  squirrels  and  frogs,  all  of  which 
have,  at  times,  the  same  strong  tendency 
to  migrate.  Left  to  themselves,  the  young 
birds  would  never  find  their  northern  or 
southern  homes;  but  with  the  impulse  to 
move  is  another  and  stronger  impulse,  to  go 
with  the  crowd.  So  the  young  birds  join 
the  migrating  hosts,  and  from  their  wiser 


W     SCffOOL  OF 

elders,  not  from  instinct,  learn  the  sure  way, 
f)    fft     W       down  the  coast  and  over  the  seas  and  through 
~^  fo  School  ^ne  unmapped  wildernesses,  to  where   food 
and  quiet  resting  places  are  awaiting  them. 

The  plovers  are  the  only  possible  excep- 
tion to  this  rule  that  I  know.  Young  plov- 
ers start  southward,  over  the  immense  reach 
from  Labrador  to  Patagonia,  some  ten  or 
twelve  days  earlier  than  their  elders;  but 
I  have  sometimes  noticed,  in  a  great  flock 
of  "  pale-bellies "  that  a  sudden  southeaster 
had  driven  to  a  landing  on  our  shores,  two 
or  three  old  "black-breasts";  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  these  older  birds  are  the  guides, 
just  as  they  seem  to  give  the  orders  in  the 
endless  wing  drills  that  plover  practice  as 
regularly  as  a  platoon  of  soldiers. 

Among  the  higher  orders  one  can  tread 
his  ground  more  firmly.  There,  as  with  chil- 
dren, the  first  and  strongest  instinct  of  every 
creature  is  that  of  obedience.  The  essential 
difference  between  the  two,  between  the 
human  and  the  little  wild  animal,  is  this: 
the  animal's  one  idea,  born  in  him  and 


THE  WOODS      ® 

strengthened  by  every  day's  training,  is  that, 

until  he  grows  up  and  learns  to  take  care  of    ^      ™     y  , 

On  ffiel&y 

himself,  his  one  business  in  the  world  is  to  be 

watchful  for  orders  and  to  obey  them  instantly ; 
while  the  child,  by  endless  pettings  and  indul- 
gences, by  having  every  little  cry  attended  to 
and  fussed  over  as  if  it  were  a  Caesar's  man- 
date, too  often  loses  the  saving  instinct  of^^- 

V 

obedience  and  grows  up  into  the  idea  that  his  ' 
business  in  the  world  is  to  give  orders  for 
others  to  obey.     So  that  at  three  or  five  or 
twenty  years,  when  the  mischief  is  done,  we 
must  begin   to  teach  the   obedience  which 
should  never  have  been  lost,  and  without 
which   life  is  a  worse  than  use- 
less  thing.  * 

When  one  turns  to  the  animals, 
it  is  often  with  the  wholesome,  refresh-"^ 
ing  sense  that  here  is  a  realm  where  the  law 
of  life  is  known  and  obeyed.     To  the  wild  s 

creature  obedience  is  everything.     It  is  the       /x^~ 
deep,  unconscious   tribute   of   ignorance   to 
wisdom,  of  weakness  to  power.     All  the  wil- 
derness mothers,  from  partridge  to  panther,     /^ 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

seize  upon  this  and  through  long  summer 
On  /h     lifov  ^ays  anc*  ^^  staru't  nights  train  and  train 


y°ung>  profiting  by  their  instinct  of 
obedience,  grow  wise  and  strong  by  careful 
teaching.  This,  in  a  word,  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  whole  secret  of  animal  life.  And  one 
who  watches  the  process  with  sympathetic 
eyes  —  this  mother  fishhawk,  overcoming 
the  young  birds'  natural  instinct  for  hunt- 
ing the  woods,  and  teaching  them  the 
better  mysteries  of  going  a-fishing  ;  this 
mother  otter,  teaching  her  young  their  first 
confidence  in  the  water,  which  they  natu- 
rally distrust,  and  then  how  to  swim  deep 
and  silent  —  can  only  wonder  and  grow 
thoughtful,  and  mend  his  crude  theories  of 
instinct  and  heredity  by  what  he  sees, 
with  open  eyes,  going  on  in  the  world  all 
about  him. 

Therefore  have  I  called  this  book  the 
"School  of  the  Woods";  for  the  summer 
wilderness  is  just  one  vast  schoolhouse,  of 
many  rooms,  in  which  a  multitude  of  wise, 
patient  mothers  are  teaching  their  little  ones, 


THE  WOODS      ® 

and  of  which  our  kindergartens  are  crude 
and  second-rate  imitations.  Here  are  prac- 
tical schools,  technical  schools.  No  superfi- 
cial polish  of  French  or  literature  will  do 
here.  Obedience  is  life;  that  is  the  first 
great  lesson.  Pity  we  men  have  not  learned 
it  better!  Every  wild  mother  knows  it, 
lives  by  it,  hammers  it  into  her  little  ones. 
And  then  come  other,  secondary  lessons,  — 
when  to  hide  and  when  to  run ;  how  to 
swoop  and  how  to  strike;  how  to  sift  and 
remember  the  many  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells  of  the  world,  and  to  suit  action  always 
and  instantaneously  to  knowledge,  —  all  of 
which,  I  repeat,  are  not  so  much  matters  of 
instinct  as  of  careful  training  and  imitation. 

Life  itself  is  the  issue  at  stake  in  this 
forest  education ;  therefore  is  the  discipline 
stern  as  death.  One  who  watches  long  over 
any  of  the  wood-folk  broods  must  catch  his 
breath  at  times  at  the  savage  earnestness 
underlying  even  the  simplest  lesson.  Few 
wild  mothers  will  tolerate  any  trifling  or  will- 
fulness in  their  little  schools ;  and  the  more 


17 

On  ffieh&y 
fo  School 


- 


ftn  /ft* 


^     SCHOOL  Of 

intelligent,  like  the  crows  and  wolves,  merci- 
^essty  kill  their  weak  and  wayward  pupils. 
ool  Yet  tenderness  and  patience  are  here  too, 
and  the  young  are  never  driven  beyond  their 
powers.  Once  they  have  learned  their  les- 
sons they  are  watched  over  for  a  few  days  by 
their  teachers,  and  are  then  sent  out  into  the 
world  to  put  their  education  to  the  practical 
t^st  of  getting  a  living  and  of  keeping  alive. 


One  thing  more :  these  interesting  little 
I  wild  kindergartens  are,  emphatically,  happy 
gatherings.  The  more  I  watch  them,  teach- 
ers and  pupils,  the  more  I  long  for  some 
measure  of  their  freedom,  their  strength  of 
play,  their  joyfulness.  This  is  the  great 


THE  WOODS      9 

lesson  which  a  man  soon  learns,  with  open 

eyes  and  heart,  in  the  school  of  the  woods. 

TU  j       i    i  j          T  On  me  Way 

Ihere  is  a  meadow  lark  out  yonder — I  fy  School  ' 

watched  him  for  half  an  hour  yesterday  — 
lying  flat  in  the  brown  grass,  his  color  hid- 
ing him  from  the  great  hawk  that  circles  and 
circles  overhead.  Long  ago  that  lark's 
mother  taught  him  the  wisdom  of  lying  still. 
Now  his  one  thought,  so  far  as  I  can  judge 
it,  is  how  perfectly  color  and  quietness  hide 
him  from  those  keen  eyes  that  he  has 
escaped  so  often.  Ninety-nine  times  out  of 
a  hundred  they  do  hide  him  perfectly,  and  he 
goes  his  way  rejoicing.  If  he  had  any  con- 
ception of  Nature  (which  he  has*  not),  he 
would  give  thanks  for  his  wonderful  color 
and  for  the  fact  that  Nature,  when  she  gave 
the  hawk  keen  eyes,  remembered  her  other 
little  children,  and  so  made  those  eyes 
incapable  of  seeing  a  thing  unless  it  moves 
or  has  conspicuous  coloring.  As  it  is,  the 
lark  thinks  he  did  it  all  himself  and 
rejoices  in  himself,  as  every  other  wild 
creature  does. 


SCHOOL  Of 


2O 

On  /tie  Way 

TV  -*•"-»  »  •/      -m 

wol 


There  can  be  no  greater  mistake,  there- 
fore, than  to  imagine  an  animal's  life  to  be 
full  of  frightful  alarms  and  haunting  terrors. 
There  is  no  terror  in  extreme  watchfulness. 
To  the  animal  it  is  simply  the  use  of  his 
unusual  powers,  with  the  joy  and  confidence 
that  the  use  of  unusual  powers  always  brings, 
to  animals  as  well  as  men.  The  eagle  watch- 
ing for  prey  far  above  his  high  mountain 
top  has  not  more,  but  rather  less,  joy  in  his 
vision  than  the  doe  has  in  hers,  who  sees 
his  sudden  slanting  flight  and,  knowing  its 
meaning,  hides  her  fawns  and  bids  them  lie 
still ;  while  she  runs  away  in  plain  sight, 
to  take  the  robber's  attention  away  from  her 
little  ones,  and  jumps  for  thick  cover,  at  last, 
where  the  eagle's  broad  wings  cannot  follow. 
And  she  is  not  terrified,  but  glad  as  a  linnet 
and  exultant  as  a  kingbird,  when  she  comes 
cantering  back  again,  after  the  danger  is  over. 

Neither  is  there  any  terror,  usually,  but 
rather  an  exultant  sense  of  power  and  vic- 
tory in  running  away.  Watch  the  deer, 
yonder,  in  his  magnificent  rush,  light  and 


THE  WOODS      ® 

swift  as  a  hawk,  over  ground  where  other 
feet  than  his  must  halt  and  creep ;  watch  the 
partridge  in  that  clean,  sure,  curving  plunge 
into  the  safety  and  shelter  of  the  evergreen 
swamp.  Hoof  and  wing  alike  seem  to  laugh 
at  the  danger  behind,  and  to  rejoice  in  their 
splendid  power  and  training. 

This  simple  fact,  so  glad  in  itself,  so  obvious 
to  one  who  keeps  his  eyes  open  in  Nature's 
world,  is  mentioned  here  by  way  of  invita- 
tion—  to  assure  the  reader  that,  if  he  enter 
this  school  of  the  woods,  he  will  see  little 
truly  of  that  which  made  his  heart  ache  in 
his  own  sad  world ;  no  tragedies  or  footlight 
effects  of  woes  and  struggles,  but  rather  a 
wholesome,  cheerful  life  to  make  one  glad 
and  send  him  back  to  his  own  school  with 
deeper  wisdom  and  renewed  courage. 

Of  late  many  letters  have  come  to  the 
writer  from  kindly,  sympathetic  people  who 
are  troubled  at  the  thought  of  suffering, 
even  of  animal  suffering.  Some  of  them 
have  also  seen  their  children's  tears  at  the 
imagined  sorrows  and  woes  of  animals. 


And  these  all  ask:    Is  it  true?   do  animals 
On  ffie  h&V  su^er'  and  sorrow  m  secret,  and  die  tragically 
~    "  at  the  last  ? 

It  is  partly  in  answer  to  these  troubled 
questions  that  two  chapters,  of  more  general 
interest,  are  added  to  these  studies  of  indi- 
vidual animals,  instead  of  awaiting  their 
place  in  a  later  volume  of  nature  essays  and 
addresses.  They  are  The  Gladsome  Life 
and  How  the  Animals  Die.  They  sum  up, 
in  a  general  way,  what  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  truth  concerning  animal  life  and 
death,  as  it  appears  to  me  now,  after  much 
watching  and  following  the  wild  things  of 
our  woods  and  fields. 

And  now,  if  a  too  long  introduction  has 
not  wearied  the  reader  and  kept  his  children 
waiting  for  animal  stories,  here  is  the  school, 
and  here  are  some  of  Nature's  children  that 
work  and  play  therein. 


p 

at  ffte  fao)ns 
'noor^ 


|1O  this  day  it  is  hard  to 
understand  how  any  eyes 
could  have  found  them, 
they  were  so  perfectly  hidden.  I  was  follow- 
ing a  little  brook,  which  led  me  by  its  singing* 
to  a  deep  dingle  in  the  very  heart  of  the  big 
woods.  A  great  fallen  tree  lay  across  my 
path  and  made  a  bridge  over  the  stream. 
Now  bridges  are  for  crossing;  that  is  plain 
to  even  the  least  of  the  wood  folk ;  so  I 
sat  down  on  the  mossy  trunk  to  see  who 
my  neighbors  might  be,  and  what  little  feet 
were  passing  on  the  King's  highway. 

Here,  beside  me,  are  claw  marks  in  the 
moldy  bark.  Only  a  bear  could  leave  that 
deep,  strong  imprint.  And  see !  there  is 
where  the  moss  slipped  and  broke  beneath 

25 


SCHOOL  OF 


26 

What  ffie  Fawns 
Know 


his  weight.  A  restless  tramp  is  Mooween, 
who  scatters  his  records  over  forty  miles  of 
hillside  on  a  summer  day,  when  his  lazy 
mood  happens  to  leave  him  for  a  season. 
Here,  on  the  other  side,  are  the  bronze-green 
petals  of  a  spruce  cone,  chips  from  a  squir- 
rel's workshop,  scattered  as  if  Meeko  had 
brushed  them  hastily  from  his  yellow  apron 
when  he  rushed  out  to  see  Mooween  as  he 
passed.  There,  beyond,  is  a  mink  sign,  plain 
as  daylight,  where  Cheokhes  sat  down  a  little 
while  after  his  breakfast  of  frogs.  And  here, 
clinging  to  a  stub,  touching  my  elbow  as  I 
sit  with  heels  dangling  idly  over  the  lazy 
brook,  is  a  crinkly  yellow  hair,  which  tells 
me  that  Eleemos  the  Sly  One,  as  Simmo  calls 
him,  hates  to  wet  his  feet,  and  so  uses  a  fallen 
,  or  a  stone  in  the  brook,  for  a 
bridge,  like  his  brother  fox  of 
the  settlements. 

Just  in  front  of  me  was 
another  fallen  tree,  lying  along- 
side the  stream  in  such  a  way 
that  no  animal  more  dangerous 


tree, 


THE  WOODS      9 

than    a   roving   mink  would   ever  think  of 

using  it     Under  its   roots,  away  from  the    ~  r.    ,  /^     r 

u-jj          j  1-4.4.1    i,  whar  me  fawns 

brook,  was  a  hidden  and  roomy  little  house,    ^     , 

with  hemlock  tips  drooping  over  its  doorway  ^ 
for  a  curtain.  "  A  pretty  place  for  a  den,"  I 
thought;  "for  no  one  could  ever  find  you 
there."  Then,  as  if  to  contradict  me,  a  stray 
sunbeam  found  the  spot  and  sent  curious 
bright  glintings  of  sheen  and  shadow  dan- 
cing and  playing  under  the  fallen  roots  and 
trunk.  "  Beautiful  1 "  I  cried,  as  the  light 
fell  on  the  brown  mold  and  flecked  it  with, 
white  and  yellow.  The  sunbeam  went  away 
again,  but  seemed  to  leave  its  brightness 
behind  it ;  for  there  was  still  the  gold-brown 
mold  under  the  roots,  and  the  flecks  of  white 
and  yellow.  I  stooped  down  to  see  it 
better ;  I  reached  in  my  hand  —  then  the 
brown  mold  changed  suddenly  to  softest 
fur;  the  glintings  of  white  and  yellow  were 
the  dappled  sides  of  two  little  fawns,  lying 
there  very  still  and  frightened,  just  where 
their  mother  had  hidden  them  when  she 
went  away. 


28 

What  ffie  Fauns 


f  Know 


<$    SCHOOL  OF 

They  were  but  a  few  days  old  when  I 
found  them.  Each  had  on  his  little  Joseph's 
coat ;  and  each,  I  think,  must  have  had  also 
a  magic  cloak  somewhere  about  him;  for  he 
had  only  to  lie  down  anywhere  to  become 
invisible.  The  curious  markings,  like  the 
play  of  light  and  shadow  through  the  leaves, 
hid  the  little  owners  perfectly,  so  long  as  they 
held  themselves  still  and  let  the  sunbeams 
dance  over  them.  Their 
beautiful  heads  were  a  study 
for  an  artist,  —  deli- 
cate, graceful,  exqui- 
sitely colored.  And 
v  their  great  soft  eyes 
had  a  questioning 
innocence,  as  they 
met  yours,  which 
went  straight  to  your 

heart  and  made  you  claim  the  beautiful 
creatures  for  your  own  instantly.  There 
is  nothing  in  all  the  woods  that  so  takes 
your  heart  by  storm  as  the  face  of  a  little 
fawn. 


THE  WOODS      0 

They  were  timid  at  first,  lying  close,  with- 
out motion  of  any  kind.  The  instinct  of 
obedience  —  the  first  and  strongest  instinct 
of  every  creature  born  into  this  world  —  kept  ~- 
them  loyal  to  the  mother's  command  to  stay 
where  they  were  and  be  still  till  she  came 
back.  So  even  after  the  hemlock  curtain 
was  brushed  aside,  and  my  eyes  saw  and  my 
hand  touched  them,  they  kept  their  heads 
flat  to  the  ground  and  pretended  that  they 
were  only  parts  of  the  brown  forest  floor,  and 
that  the  spots  on  their  bright  coats  were  but 
flecks  of  summer  sunshine. 

I  felt  then  that  I  was  an  intruder;  that  I 
ought  to  go  straight  away  and  leave  them; 
but  the  little  things  were  too  beautiful,  lying 
there  in  their  wonderful  old  den,  with  fear  and 
wonder  and  questionings  dancing  in  their  soft 
eyes  as  they  turned  them  back  at  me  like 
a  mischievous  child  playing  peekaboo.  It  is 
a  tribute  to  our  higher  nature  that  one  can- 
not see  a  beautiful  thing  anywhere  without 
wanting  to  draw  near,  to  see,  to  touch,  to 
possess  it.  And  here  was  beauty  such  as  one 


30 

What  Jfie  Fawns 
Know 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

rarely  finds,  and,  though  I  was  an  intruder,  I 
could  not  go  away. 

The  hand  that  touched  the  little  wild 
things  brought  no  sense  of  danger  with  it. 
It  searched  out  the  spots  behind  their  vel- 
vet ears,  where  they  love  to  be  rubbed;  it 
wandered  down  over  their  backs  with  a  little 
wavy  caress  in  its  motion;  it  curled  its  palm 
up  softly  under  their  moist  muzzles  and 
brought  their  tongues  out  instantly  for  the 
faint  suggestion  of  salt  that  was  in  it.  Sud- 
denly their  heads  came  up.  Play  was  over 
now.  They  had  forgotten  their  hiding,  their 
first  lesson;  they  turned  and  looked  at  me 
full  with  their  great,  innocent,  questioning 
eyes.  It  was  wonderful;  I  was  undone.  One 
must  give  his  life,  if  need  be,  to  defend  the 
little  things  after  they  had  looked  at  him  just 
once  like  that. 

When  I  rose  at  last,  after  petting  them 
to  my  heart's  content,  they  staggered  up  to 
their  feet  and  came  out  of  their  house.  Their 
mother  had  told  them  to  stay ;  but  here  was 
another  big  kind  animal,  evidently,  whom 


THE  WOODS      0 

they  might  safely  trust.  "  Take  the  gifts  the 
gods  provide  thee  "  was  the  thought  in  their 
little  heads;  and  the  taste  in  their  tongues' 
ends,  when  they  licked  my  hand,  was  the 
nicest  thing  they  had  ever  known.  As  I 
turned  away  they  ran  after  me,  with  a  plain- 
tive little  cry  to  bring  me  back.  When  I 
stopped  they  came  close,  nestling  against  me, 
one  on  either  side,  and  lifted  their  heads  to 
be  petted  and  rubbed  again. 

Standing  so,   all    eagerness    and   wonder, 
they  were  a  perfect  study  in  first  impressions 
of  the  world.     Their  ears  had  already  caught 
the  deer  trick  of  twitching  nervously  and 
making  trumpets  at  every  sound.    A 
leaf  rustled,  a  twig  broke,  the  brook's 
song    swelled    as    a    floating    stick 
jammed  in  the  current,  and  instantly 
the  fawns  were  all  alert.     Eyes,  ears,  l[ 
noses  questioned  the  phenomenon.  f.< 
Then  they  would  raise  their  eyes 
slowly  to  mine.     "  This  is  a  won- 
derful   world.      This   big   wood    is   full    of 
music.     We  know  not.     Tell  us  all  about 


What  ffie  f&wns 

Wusf 

"Know, 


32 

What  the  Fauns 
fysf  Know 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

it,"  —  that  is  what  the  beautiful  eyes  were 
saying  as  they  lifted  up  to  mine,  full  of 
innocence  and  delight  at  the  joy  of  living. 
Then  the  hands  that  rested  fondly,  one  on 
either  soft  neck,  moved  down  from  their  ears 
with  a  caressing  sweep  and  brought  up  under 
their  moist  muzzles.  Instantly  the  wood  and 
its  music  vanished ;  the  questions  ran  away 
out  of  their  eyes.  Their  eager  tongues  were 
out,  and  all  the  unknown  sounds  were  forgot- 
ten in  the  new  sensation  of  lapping  a  man's 
palm,  with  a  wonderful  taste  hidden  some- 
where under  its  friendly  roughnesses.  They 
were  still  licking  my  hands,  nestling  close 
against  me,  when  a  twig  snapped  faintly  far 
behind  us. 

Now  twig  snapping  is  the  great  index  to 
all  that  passes  in  the  wilderness.  Curiously 
enough,  no  two  animals  can  break  even  a 
twig  under  their  feet  and  give  the  same 
warning.  The  crack  under  a  bear's  foot, 
except  when  he  is  stalking  his  game,  is 
heavy  and  heedless.  The  hoof  of  a  moose 
crushes  a  twig,  and  chokes  the  sound  of  it 


THE  WOODS      ® 

before  it  can  tell  its  message  fairly.    When  a 

twig   speaks    under   a   deer  in  his   passage   >,,,    /  /^     r* 

.  1-1          WhaHne  fawns 

through    the    woods,   the    sound    is    sharp,   ^     , 

dainty,  alert.    It  suggests  the  plop  of  a  rain-  jsno[J 
drop  into  the  lake.     And  the  sound  behind 
us  now  could  not  be  mistaken.     The  mother 
of  my  little  innocents  was  coming. 

I  hated  to  frighten  her,  and  through  her 
to  destroy  their  new  confidence ;  so  I  hur- 
ried back  to  the  den,  the  little  ones  running 
close  by  my  side.  Ere  I  was  halfway,  a  twig 
snapped  sharply  again;  there  was  a  swift 
rustle  in  the  underbrush,  and  a  doe  sprang 
out,  with  a  low  bleat  as  she  saw  the  home 
log.  At  sight  of  me  she  stopped  short, 
trembling  violently,  her  ears  pointing  for- 
ward like  two  accusing  fingers,  an  awful 
fear  in  her  soft  eyes  as  she  saw  her  little 
ones  with  her  archenemy  between  them,  his 
hands  resting  on  their  innocent  necks.  Her 
body  swayed  away,  every  muscle  tense  for 
the  jump ;  but  her  feet  seemed  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Slowly  she  swayed  back  to  her  bal- 
ance, her  eyes  holding  mine ;  then  away  again 


34 

What  the  Fauns 
Know 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

as  the  danger  scent  poured  into  her  nose. 
But  still  the  feet  stayed.  She  could  not 
move ;  could  not  believe.  Then,  as  I  waited 
quietly  and  tried  to  make  my  eyes  say  all 
sorts  of  friendly  things,  the  harsh,  throaty 
K-a-a-a-h!  k-a-a-a-h!  the  danger  cry  of  the 
deer,  burst  like  a  trumpet  blast  through  the 
woods,  and  she  leaped  back  to  cover. 

At  the  sound  the  little  ones  jumped  as  if 
^  stung,  and  plunged  into  the  brush  in  the 
opposite  direction.      But  the  strange 
place  frightened  them ;  the  hoarse  cry 
that  went  crashing  through  the  startled 
woods  filled  them  with  nameless  dread. 
In  a  moment  they  were  back  again, 
nestling    close    against    me,    growing 
quiet  as  the  hands  stroked  their  sides 
without  tremor  or  hurry. 

Around  us,  out  of  sight,  ran  the  fear- 
haunted  mother,  calling,  calling;  now  show- 
ing her  head,  with  the  terror  deep  in  her 
eyes;  now  dashing  away,  with  her  white  flag 
up,  to  show  her  little  ones  the  way  they  must 
take.  But  the  fawns  gave  no  heed  after  the 


THE  WOODS      B> 

first  alarm.    They  felt  the  change ;  their  ears 

were    twitching   nervously,  and   their   eyes,    ~  r.     .  , 0     « 
,.  u  11  -i  i          What  me  fawns 

which  had  not  yet  grown  quick  enough  to    ^     , 

measure  distances  and  find  their  mother  in  j, 
her  hiding,  were  full  of  strange  terror  as  they 
questioned  mine.  Still,  under  the  alarm,  they 
felt  the  kindness  which  the  poor  mother, 
dog-driven  and  waylaid  by  guns,  had  never 
known.  And  they  stayed,  with  a  deep  wis- 
dom beyond  all  her  cunning,  where  they 
knew  they  were  safe. 

I  led  them  slowly  back  to  their  hiding 
place,  gave  them  a  last  lick  at  my  hands, 
and  pushed  them  gently  under  the  hemlock 
curtain.  When  they  tried  to  come  out  I 
pushed  them  back  again.  "  Stay  there,  and 
mind  your  mother;  stay  there,  and  follow 
your  mother,"  I  kept  whispering.  And  to 
this  day  I  have  a  half  belief  that  they  under- 
stood, not  the  word  but  the  feeling  behind 
it;  for  they  grew  quiet  after  a  time  and 
looked  out  with  wide-open,  wondering  eyes. 
Then  I  dodged  out  of  sight,  jumped  the 
fallen  log,  to  throw  them  off  the  scent  should 


36 

What  ffie  Fawns 
it  Know 


they  come  out,  crossed  the  brook,  and  glided 
out  of  sight  into  the  underbrush.  Once 
safely  out  of  hearing,  I  headed  straight  for 
the  open,  a  few  yards  away,  where  the  blasted 
white  stems  of  the  burned  hillside  showed 
through  the  green  of  the  big  woods,  and 
climbed,  and  looked,  and  changed  my 
position,  till  I  could  see  the  fallen  tree 
under  whose  roots  my  little  innocents  were 
hiding. 

The  hoarse  danger  cry  had  ceased;  the 
woods  were  all  still  again.  A  movement  in 
the  underbrush,  and  I  saw  the  doe  glide  out 
beyond  the  brook  and  stand  looking,  listen- 
ing. She  bleated  softly;  the  hemlock  cur- 
tain was  thrust  aside,  and  the  little  ones 
came  out.  At  sight  of  them  she  leaped  for- 
ward, a  great  gladness  showing  eloquently 
in  every  line  of  her  graceful  body,  rushed  up 
to  them,  dropped  her  head  and  ran  her  keen 
nose  over  them,  ears  to  tail  and  down  their 
sides  and  back  again,  to  be  sure,  and  sure 
again,  that  they  were  her  own  little  ones 
and  were  not  harmed.  All  the  while  the 


"THE   WHITE   FLAG  SHOWING   LIKE  A   BEACON 
LIGHT  AS  SHE  JUMPED  AWAY" 


fawns  nestled  close  to  her,  as  they  had  done 
a  moment  before  to  me,  and  lifted  their  heads 
to  touch  her  sides  with  their  noses,  and  ask 
in  their  own  dumb  way  what  it  was  all  about, 
and  why  she  had  run  away. 

Then,  as  the  smell  of  the  man  came  to  her 
from  the  tainted  underbrush,  the  absolute 
necessity  of  teaching  them  their  neglected 
second  lesson,  before  another  danger  should 
find  them,  swept  over  her  in  a  flood.  She 
sprang  aside  with  a  great  bound,  and  the 
hoarse  K-a-a-a-h  !  k-a-a-a-h  !  crashed  through 
the  woods  again.  Her  tail  was  straight  up, 
the  white  flag  showing  like  a  beacon  light  as 
she  jumped  away.  Behind  her  the  fawns 
stood  startled  a  moment,  trembling  with  a 
new  wonder.  Then  their  flags  went  up  too, 
and  they  wabbled  away  on  slender  legs 
through  the  tangles  and  over  the  rough 
places  of  the  wood,  bravely  following  their 
leader.  And  I,  watching  from  my  hiding, 
with  a  vague  regret  that  they  could  never 
again  be  mine,  not  even  for  a  moment,  saw 
only  the  crinkling  lines  of  underbrush  and 


39 

What  ffie  ftiwns 
Jiust 


here  and  there  the  flash  of  a  little  white  flag. 

r,r*    r  re     r*  So  they  went  up  the  hill  and  out  of  sight. 

What  me  Fawns       ~.    .  r     ..„        ,  ,'*'„      .,       ,  .. 

r,  First,  lie  still ;  and  second,  follow  the  white 

Know  n         '  .    . 

nag.     When  I  saw  them  again  it  needed  no 

danger  cry  of  the  mother  to  remind  them  of 
these  two  things  that  every  fawn  must  know 
who  would  live  to  grow  up  in  the  big  woods. 


x--' 


•  • 


Cry in 


&.. 

.  <%'«./<• 
'  '*l*-1- 


HIS  is  the  rest  of  the  story,  just  as  I  saw 
it,  of  the  little  fawns  that  I  found  under  the 
mossy  log  by  the  brook.  There  were  two  of 
them,  you  remember ;  and  though  they  looked 
alike  at  first  glance,  I  soon  found  out  that 
there  is  just  as  much  difference  in  fawns  as 
there  is  in  folks.  Eyes,  faces,  dispositions, 
characters, — in  all  things  they  were  as  unlike 
as  the  virgins  of  the  parable.  One  of  them 
was  wise,  and  the  other  was  very  foolish. 
The  one  was  a  follower,  a  learner;  he  never 
forgot  his  second  lesson,  to  follow  the  white 
flag.  The  other  followed  from  the  first  only 
his  own  willful  head  and  feet,  and  'discovered 

43 


W     SCHOOL  Of 

too  late  that  obedience  is  life.  Until  the 
bear  found  him,  I  have  no  doubt  he  was 
thinking,  in  his  own  dumb,  foolish  way,  that 
obedience  is  only  for  the  weak  and  ignorant, 
and  that  government  is  only  an  unfair  advan- 
tage which  all  the  wilderness  mothers  take 
to  keep  little  wild  things  from  doing  as  they 
please. 

The  wise  old  mother  took  them  both  away 
when  she  knew  I  had  found  them,  and  hid 
them  in  a  deeper  solitude  of  the  big  woods, 
nearer  the  lake,  where  she  could  the  sooner 
reach  them  from  her  feeding  grounds.  For 
days  after  the  wonderful  discovery  I  used  to 
go  in  the  early  morning  or  the  late  afternoon, 
while  mother  deer  are  away  feeding  along  the 
watercourses,  and  search  the  dingle  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  hoping  to  find  the 'little 
ones  again  and  win  their  confidence.  But 
they  were  not  there ;  and  I  took  to  watching 
instead  a  family  of  mink  that  lived  in  a  den 
under  a  root,  and  a  big  owl  that  always  slept 
in  the  same  hemlock.  Then,  one  day  when 
a  flock  of  partridges  led  me  out  of  the  wild 


THE  WOODS      » 

berry  bushes  into  a  cool  green  island  of  the 
burned  lands,  I  ran  plump  upon  the  deer  and 
her  fawns  lying  all  together  under  a  fallen  tree- 
top,  dozing  away  the  heat  of  the  day. 

They  did  not  see  me,  but  were  only  scared 
into  action  as  a  branch,  upon  which  I  stood 
looking  for  my  partridges,  gave  way  beneath 
my  feet  and  let  me  down  with  a  great  crash 
under  the  fallen  tree.  There,  looking  out,  I 
could  see  them  perfectly,  while  Kookooskoos 
himself  could  hardly  have  seen  me.  At  the 
first  crack  they  all  jumped  like  Jack-in-a-box 
when  you  touch  his  spring.  The  mother  put 
up  her  white  flag — which  is  the  snowy  under- 
side of  her  useful  tail,  and  shows  like  a  bea- 
con by  day  or  night  —  and  bounded  away 
with  a  hoarse  Ka-a-a-a-h  !  of  warning.  One 
of  the  little  ones  followed  her  on  the  instant,, 
jumping  squarely  in  his  mother's  tracks,  his 
own  little  white  flag  flying  to  guide  any  that 
might  come  after  him.  But  the  second  fawn 
ran  off  at  a  tangent,  and  stopped  in  a  moment 
to  stare  and  whistle  and  stamp  his  tiny  foot 
in  an  odd  mixture  of  curiosity  and  defiance. 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

The  mother  had  to  circle  back  twice  before 
^e  f°ll°wed  her,  at  last,  unwillingly.  As  she 
stole  back  each  time,  her  tail  was  down  and 
wiggling  nervously  —  which  is  the  sure  sign, 
when  you  see  it,  that  some  scent  of  you  is 
floating  off  through  the  woods  and  telling 
its  warning  into  the  deer's  keen  nostrils. 
But  when  she  jumped  away,  the  white  flag 
was  straight  up,  flashing  in  the  very  face  of 
her  foolish  fawn,  telling  him  as  plain  as  any 
language  what  sign  he  must  follow,  if  he 
would  escape  danger  and  avoid  breaking  his 
legs  in  the  tangled  underbrush. 

I  did  not  understand  till  long  afterwards, 
when  I  had  watched  the  fawns  many  times, 
how  important  is  this  latter  suggestion.  One 
who  follows  a  frightened  deer  and  sees  or  hears 
him  go  bounding  off  at  breakneck  pace  over 
loose  rocks  and  broken  trees  and  tangled 
underbrush;  rising  swift  on  one  side  of  a 
windfall  without  knowing  what  lies  on  the 
other  side  till  he  is  already  falling;  driv- 
ing like  an  arrow  over  ground  where  you 
must  follow  like  a  snail,  lest  you  wrench  a 


THE  WOODS      * 

foot  or  break  an  ankle,  —  finds  himself  asking 
with  unanswered  wonder  how  any  deer  can 
live  half  a  season  in  the  wilderness  without 
breaking  all  his  legs.  And  when  you  run 
upon  a  deer  at  night  and  hear  him  go  smash- 
ing off  in  the  darkness  at  the  same  reckless 
speed,  over  a  blow-down,  perhaps,  through 
which  you  can  barely  force  your  way  by  day- 
light, then  you  realize  suddenly  that  the  most 
wonderful  part  of  a  deer's  education  shows 
itself,  not  in  keen  eyes  or  trumpet  ears,  or  in 
his  finely  trained  nose,  more  sensitive  a 
hundred  times  than  any  barometer,  but  in 
his  forgotten  feet,  which  seem  to  have  eyes 
and  nerves  and  brains  packed  into  their  hard 
shells,  instead  of  the  senseless  matter  you 
see  there. 

Watch  the  doe  yonder  as  she  bounds  away, 
wigwagging  her  heedless  little  one  to  follow. 
She  is  thinking  only  of  him ;  and  now  you 
see  her  feet  free  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
As  she  rises  over  the  big  windfall, 
hang  from  the  ankle  joints,  limp  as  2 
glove  out  of  which  the  hand  has  beer 


47 
JJCryinfhe 


34 Cry L 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

drawn,  waiting  and  watching.  One  hoof 
touches  a  twig ;  like  lightning  it  spreads  and 
drops,  after  running  for  the  smallest  fraction 
of  a  second  along  the  obstacle  to  know  whether 
to  relax  or  stiffen,  or  rise  or  fall  to  meet  it. 
Just  before  she  strikes  the  ground  on  the  down 
plunge,  see  the  wonderful  hind  hoofs  sweep 
themselves  forward,  surveying  the  ground  by 
touch,  and  bracing  themselves,  in  a  fraction 
of  time  so  small  that  the  eye  cannot  follow, 
for  the  shock  of  what  lies  beneath  them, 
whether  rock  or  rotten  wood  or  yielding 
moss.  The  fore  feet  have  followed  the  quick 
eyes  above,  and  shoot  straight  and  sure  to 
their  landing ;  but  the  hind  hoofs  must  find 
the  spot  for  themselves  as  they  come  down 
and,  almost  ere  they  find  it,  brace  themselves 
again  for  the  push  of  the  mighty  muscles 
above. 

Once  only  I  found  where  a  fawn,  with 
untrained  feet,  had  broken  its  leg ;  and  once 
I  heard  of  a  wounded  buck,  driven  to  death 
by  dogs,  that  had  fallen  in  the  same  way, 
never  to  rise  again.  Those  were  rare  cases. 


THE  WOODS      « 

The  marvel  is  that  it  does  not  happen  to 
every  deer  that  fear  drives  through  the 
wilderness. 

And  that  is  another  reason  why  the  fawns 
must  learn  to  obey  a  wiser  head  than  their 
own.  Till  their  little  feet  are  educated,  the 
mother  must  choose  the  way  for  them ;  and 
a  wise  fawn  will  jump  squarely  in  her  tracks. 
That  explains  also  why  deer,  even  after  they 
are  full  grown,  will  often  walk  in  single  file, 
a  half-dozen  of  them  sometimes  following  a 
wise  leader,  stepping  in  his  tracks  and  leav- 
ing but  a  single  trail.  It  is  partly,  perhaps, 
to  fool  their  old  enemy,  the  wolf,  and  their 
new  enemy,  the  man,  by  hiding  the  weakling's 
trail  in  the  stride  and  hoof  mark  of  a  big 
buck;  but  it  shows  also  the  old  habit,  and 
the  training  which  begins  when  the  fawns 
first  learn  to  follow  the  flag. 

After  that  second  discovery  I  used  to  go 
in  the  afternoon  sometimes  to  a  point  on 
the  lake  nearest  the  fawns'  hiding  place,  and 
wait  in  my  canoe  for  the  mother  to  come  out 
and  show  me  where  she  had  left  her  little 


Cry  in  the 


W     SCHOOL  Of 

ones.  As  they  grew,  and  the  drain  upon  her 
increased  from  their  feeding,  she  seemed 
always  half  starved.  Waiting  in  my  canoe  I 
would  hear  the  crackle  of  brush,  as  she  trotted 
straight  down  to  the  lake  almost  heedlessly, 
and  see  her  plunge  through  the  fringe  of 
bushes  that  bordered  the  water.  With 
scarcely  a  look  or  a  sniff  to  be  sure  the 
coast  was  clear,  she  would  jump  for  the  lily 
pads.  Sometimes  the  canoe  was  in  plain 
sight;  but  she  gave  no  heed  as  she  tore  up 
the  juicy  buds  and  stems,  and  swallowed 
them  with  the  appetite  of  a  famished  wolf. 
Then  I  would  paddle  away  and,  taking  my 
direction  from  her  trail  as  she  came,  hunt  dili- 
gently for  the  fawns  until  I  found  them. 

This  last  happened  only  two  or  three 
times.  The  little  ones  were  already  wild; 
they  had  forgotten  all  about  our  first  meet- 
ing, and  when  I  showed  myself,  or  cracked  a 
twig  too  near  them,  they  would  promptly  bolt 
into  the  brush.  One  always  ran  straight  away, 
his  white  flag  flying  to  show  that  he  remem- 
bered his  lesson;  the  other  went  off  zigzag, 


THE  WOODS      « 

stopping  at  every  angle  of  his  run  to  look  back 
and  question  me  with  his  eyes  and  ears. 

There  was  only  one  way  in  which  such 
disobedience  could  end.  I  saw  it  plainly 
enough  one  afternoon,  when,  had  I  been  one 
of  the  fierce  prowlers  of  the  wilderness,  the 
little  fellow's  history  would  have  stopped  short 
under  the  paw  of  Upweekis,  the  shadowy  lynx 
of  the  burned  lands.  It  was  late  afternoon 
when  I  came  over  a  ridge,  following  a  deer 
path  on  my  way  to  the  lake,  and  looked  down 
into  a  long  narrow  valley  filled  with  berry 
bushes,  and  a  few  fire-blasted  trees  standing 
here  and  there  to  point  out  the  perfect  lone- 
liness and  desolation  of  the  place. 

Just  below  me  a  deer  was  feeding  hungrily, 
only  her  hind  quarters  showing  out  of  the 
underbrush.  I  watched  her  awhile,  then 
dropped  on  all  fours  and  began  to  creep 
towards  her,  to  see  how  near  I  could  get  and 
what  new  trait  I  might  discover.  But  at  the 
first  motion  (I  had  stood  at  first  like  an  old 
stump  on  the  ridge)  a  fawn  that  had  evidently 
been  watching  me,  among  the  bushes  where 


Cry  in  the 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

I  could  not  see  him,  sprang  into  sight  with 
Crv  In  the     a  s^arP  wnist^e  °f  warning.     The  doe  threw 
JVighfr  J&  UP  ner  nead,  looking  straight  at  me,  as  if  she 

had  understood  more  from  the  signal  than  I 
had  thought  possible.  There  was  not  an 
instant's  hesitation  or  searching.  Her  eyes 
went  direct  to  me,  as  if  the  fawn's  cry  had 
said:  "  Behind  you,  mother,  in  the  path  by 
the  second  gray  rock ! "  Then  she  jumped 
away,  shooting  up  the  opposite  hill  over  roots 
and  rocks  as  if  thrown  by  steel  springs,  blow- 
ing hoarsely  at  every  jump,  and  followed  in 
splendid  style  by  her  watchful  little  one. 

At  the  first  snort  of  danger  there  was  a 
rush  in  the  underbrush  near  where  she  had 
stood,  and  a  second  fawn  sprang  into  sight.  I 
knew  him  instantly  —  the  heedless  one  —  and 
that  he  had  neglected  too  long  the  matter  of 
following  the  flag.  He  was  confused,  fright- 
ened, chuckle-headed  now;  he  came  darting 
up  the  deer  path  in  the  wrong  direction, 
straight  towards  me,  to  within  two  jumps, 
before  he  noticed  the  man  kneeling  in  the 
path  before  him  and  watching  him  quietly. 


THE  WOODS      0 

At  the  startling  discovery  he  stopped  short, 
seeming  to  shrink  smaller  and  smaller  before 
my  eyes.  Then  he  edged  sidewise  to  a  great 
stump,  hid  himself  among  the  roots,  and 
stood  stock-still,  —  a  beautiful  picture  of  inno- 
cence and  curiosity,  framed  in  the  rough 
brown  roots  of  the  spruce  stump.  It  was  his 
first  teaching,  to  hide  and  be  still.  Just  as 
he  needed  it  most,  he  had  forgotten  abso- 
lutely the  second  lesson. 

We  watched  each  other  full  five  minutes 
without  moving  an  eyelash.  Then  his  first 
lesson  ebbed  away.  He  sidled  out  into  the 
path  again,  came  towards  me  two  dainty,  halt- 
ing steps,  and  stamped  prettily  with  his  left 
fore  foot.  He  was  a  young  buck,  and  had 
that  trick  of  stamping  without  any  instruc- 
tion. It  is  an  old,  old  ruse  to  make  you 
move,  to  startle  you  by  the  sound  and  threat- 
ening motion  into  showing  who  you  are  and 
what  are  your  intentions. 

But  still  the  man  did  not  move ;  the  fawn 
grew  frightened  at  his  own  boldness  and  ran 
away  down  the  path.  Far  up  the  opposite 


Cry  in  the 


9     SCHOOL  OJF 

hill  I  heard  the  mother  calling  him.     But  he 

heeded  not ;   he   wanted  to  find  out  things 
.  _u  .  ? 

JVitiht  Jlk  *or  nimse1*-     There  he  was  in  the  path  again, 

watching  me.  I  took  out  my  handkerchief 
and  waved  it  gently;  at  which  great  marvel 
he  trotted  back,  stopping  anon  to  look  and 
stamp  his  little  foot,  to  show  me  that  he  was 
not  afraid. 

"  Brave  little  chap,  I  like  you,"  I  thought, 
my  heart  going  out  to  him  as  he  stood  there 
with  his  soft  eyes  and  beautiful  face,  stamp- 
ing his  little  foot.  "  But  what,"  my  thoughts 
went  on,  "  had  happened  to  you  ere  now,  had 
a  bear  or  lucivee  lifted  his  head  over  the 
ridge  ?  Next  month,  alas !  the  law  will  be 
off;  then  there  will  be  hunters  in  these 
woods,  some  of  whom  leave  their  hearts,  with 
their  wives  and  children,  behind  them.  You 
can't  trust  them,  believe  me,  little  chap.  Your 
mother  is  right ;  you  can't  trust  them." 

The  night  was  coming  swiftly.  The 
mother's  call,  growing  ever  more  anxious, 
more  insistent,  swept  over  the  darkening  hill- 
side. "  Perhaps,"  I  thought,  with  sudden 


THE  WOODS      * 

twinges  and  alarms  of  conscience,  "perhaps 
I  set  you  all  wrong,  little  chap,  in  giving  you 
the  taste  of  salt  that  day,  and  teaching  you  to 
trust  things  that  meet  you  in  the  wilderness." 
That  is  generally  the  way  when  we  meddle 
with  Mother  Nature,  who  has  her  own  good 
reasons  for  doing  things  as  she  does.  "  But 
no !  there  were  two  of  you  under  the  old  log 
that  day ;  and  the  other,  —  he 's  up  there  with 
his  mother  now,  where  you  ought  to  be, — 
he  knows  that  old  laws  are  safer  than  new 
thoughts,  especially  new  thoughts  in  the 
heads  of  foolish  youngsters.  You  are  all 
wrong,  little  chap,  for  all  your  pretty  curiosity, 
and  the  stamp  of  your  little  foot  that  quite 
wins  my  heart.  Perhaps  I  am  to  blame,  after 
all ;  anyway,  I  '11  teach  you  better  now." 

At  the  thought  I  picked  up  a  large  stone 
and  sent  it  crashing,  jumping,  tearing  down 
the  hillside  straight  at  him.     All  his  bravado 
vanished  like  a  wink.     Up  went  his  flag,  and 
away  he  went  over  the  logs  and  rocks  of     JJ 
the  great  hillside ;  where  presently  I  heard  j?^ 
his  mother  running  in  a  great  circle  till 


Cryinihe 


Cry  L 
JVight* 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

she  found  him  with  her  nose,  thanks  to  the 
wood  wires  and  the  wind's  message,  and  led 
him  away  out  of  danger. 

One  who  lives  for  a  few  weeks  in  the 
wilderness,  with  eyes  and  ears  open,  soon 
finds  that,  instead  of  the  lawlessness  and 
blind  chance  which  seem  to  hold  sway  there, 
he  lives  in  the  midst  of  law  and  order  —  an 
order  of  things  much  older  than  that  to  which 
he  is  accustomed,  with  which  it  is  not  well  to 
interfere.  I  was  uneasy,  following  the  little 
deer  path  through  the  twilight  stillness ;  and 
my  uneasiness  was  not  decreased  when  I 
found  on  a  log,  within  fifty  yards  of  the  spot 
where  the  fawn  first  appeared,  the  signs  of  a 
big  lucivee,  with  plenty  of  fawn's  hair  and 
fine-cracked  bones  to  tell  me  what  he  had 
eaten  for  his  midnight  dinner. 


THE  WOODS      « 

Down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  same  deer 
path,  where  it  stopped  at  the  lake  to  let  the 
wild  things  drink,  was  a  little  brook.  Out- 
side the  mouth  of  this  brook,  among  the  rocks, 
was  a  deep  pool ;  and  in  the  pool  lived  some 
big  trout.  I  was  there  one  night,  some  two 
weeks  later,  trying  to  catch  some  of  the  big 
trout  for  my  breakfast. 

Those  were  wise  fish.  It  was  of  no  use  to 
angle  for  them  by  day  any  more.  They 
knew  all  the  flies  in  my  book ;  could  tell  the 
new  Jenny  Lind  from  the  old  Bumble  Bee 
before  it  struck  the  water;  and  seemed  to 
know  perfectly,  both  by  instinct  and  experi- 
ence, that  they  were  all  frauds,  which  might 
as  well  be  called  Jenny  Bee  and  Bumble 
Lind  for  any  sweet  reasonableness  that  was 
in  them.  Besides  all  this,  the  water  was  warm ; 
the  trout  were  logy  and  would  not  rise. 

By  night,  however,  the  case  was  different. 
A  few  of  the  trout  would  leave  the  pool  and 
prowl  along  the  shores  in  shallow  water,  to 
see  what  tidbits  the  darkness  might  bring,  in 
the  shape  of  night  bugs  and  careless  piping 


Cry  in  the 


Cry L 
JV/ghl- 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

frogs  and  sleepy  minnows.  Then,  if  you 
built  a  fire  on  the  beach  and  cast  a  white- 
winged  fly  across  the  path  of  the  firelight, 
you  would  sometimes  get  a  big  one. 

It  was  fascinating  sport  always,  whether 
the  trout  were  rising  or  not.  One  had  to 
fish  with  his  ears,  and  keep  most  of  his  brains 
in  his  hand,  ready  to  strike  quick  and  hard 
when  the  moment  came,  after  an  hour  of  cast- 
ing. Half  the  time  you  would  not  see  your 
fish  at  all,  but  only  hear  the  savage  plunge 
as  he  swirled  down  with  your  fly.  At  other 
times,  as  you  struck  sharply  at  the  plunge, 
your  fly  would  come  back  to  you,  or  tangle 
itself  up  in  unseen  snags ;  and  far  out,  where 
the  verge  of  the  firelight  rippled  away  into 
darkness,  you  would  see  a  sharp  wave-wedge 
shooting  away ;  which  told  you  that  your  trout 
was  only  a  musquash.  Swimming  quietly  by, 
he  had  seen  you  and  your  fire,  and  slapped 
his  tail  down  hard  on  the  water  to  make  you 
jump.  That  is  a  way  Musquash  has  in  the 
night,  so  that  he  can  make  up  his  mind  what 
queer  thing  you  are  and  what  you  are  doing. 


THE  WOODS 


All  the  while,  as  you  fish,  the  great  dark 
woods  stand  close  about  you,  silent,  listening. 
The  air  is  full  of  scents  and  odors  that  steal 
abroad  only  by  night,  while  the  air  is  dew- 
laden.  Strange  cries,  calls,  squeaks,  rustlings 
run  along  the  hillside,  or  float  in  from  the 
water,  or  drop  down  from  the  air  overhead, 
to  make  you  guess  and  wonder  what  wood 
folk  are  abroad  at  such  unseemly  hours,  and 
what  they  are  about.  So  that  it  is  good  to 
fish  by  night,  as  well  as  by  day,  and  go  home 
with  heart  and  head  full,  even  though  your 
creel  be  empty. 

I  was  standing  very  still  by  my  fire,  wait- 
ing for  a  big  trout  that  had  risen  twice  to 
regain  his  confidence,  when  I  heard  cautious 
rustlings  in  the  brush  behind  me.  I  turned 
instantly,  and  there  were  two  great  glowing 
spots,  the  eyes  of  a  deer,  flashing  out  of  the 
dark  woods.  A  swift  rustle,  and  two  more 
coals  glow  lower  down,  flashing  and  scintil- 
lating with  strange  colors;  and  then  two 
more;  and  I  know  that  the  doe  and  her 
fawns  are  there,  stopped  and  fascinated  on 


Cry  in  the 


their  way  to  drink  by  the  great  wonder  of 
the  light  and  the  dancing  shadows,  that  rush 
up  at  timid  wild  things,  as  if  to  frighten  them, 
but  only  jump  over  them  and  back  again,  as 
if  inviting  them  to  join  the  silent  play. 

I  knelt  down  quietly  beside  my  fire,  slip- 
ping on  a  great  -roll  of  birch  bark,  which 
blazed  up  brightly,  filling  the  woods  with 
light.  There,  under  a  spruce,  where  a  dark 
shadow  had  been  a  moment  agone,  stood  the 
mother,  her  eyes  all  ablaze  with  the  wonder 
of  the  light ;  now  staring  steadfastly  into  the 
fire ;  now  starting  nervously,  with  low  ques- 
tioning snorts,  as  a  troop  of  shadows  ran  up 
to  play  hop-scotch  with  the  little  ones,  who 
stood  close  behind  her,  one  on  either  side. 

A  moment  only  it  lasted.  Then  one  fawn 
—  I  knew  the  heedless  one,  even  in  the  fire- 
light, by  his  face  and  by  his  bright-dappled 
Joseph's  coat  —  came  straight  towards  me, 
stopping  to  stare  with  flashing  eyes  when  the 
fire  jumped  up,  and  then  to  stamp  his  little 
foot  at  the  shadows  to  show  them  that  he 
was  not  afraid. 


"HER   EYES   ALL  ABLAZE  WITH   THE 
WONDER    OF  THE    LIGHT" 


The  mother  called  him  anxiously ;  but  still 
he  came  on,  stamping  prettily.  She  grew 
uneasy,  trotting  back  and  forth  in  a  half  cir- 
cle, warning,  calling,  pleading.  Then,  as  he 
came  between  her  and  the  fire,  and  his  little 
shadow  stretched  away  up  the  hill  where  she 
was,  showing  how  far  away  he  was  from  her 
and  how  near  the  light,  she  broke  away  from 
its  fascination  with  an  immense  effort:  Ka- 
a-a-h!  ka-a-a-h!  the  hoarse  cry  rang  through 
the  startled  woods  like  a  pistol  shot ;  and  she 
bounded  away,  her  white  flag  shining  like  a 
wave  crest  in  the  night  to  guide  her  little 
ones. 

The  second  fawn  followed  her  instantly; 
but  the  heedless  one  barely  swung  his  head 
to  see  where  she  was  going,  and  then  came 
on  towards  the  light,  staring  and  stamping  in 
foolish  wonder. 

I  watched  him  a  little  while,  fascinated 
myself  by  his  beauty,  his  dainty  motions,  his 
soft  ears  with  a  bright  oval  of  light  about 
them,  his  wonderful  eyes  glowing  like  burn- 
ing rainbows,  kindled  by  the  firelight.  Far 


Cry  in  the 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

behind  him  the  mother's  cry  ran  back  and 
forth  along  the  hillside.  Suddenly  it  changed ; 
a  danger  note  leaped  into  it;  and  again  I 
heard  the  call  to  follow  and  the  crash  of 
brush  as  she  leaped  away.  I  remembered 
the  lynx  and  the  sad  little  history  written 
on  the  log  above.  As  the  quickest  way  of 
saving  the  foolish  youngster,  I  kicked  my 
fire  to  pieces  and  walked  out  towards  him. 
Then,  as  the  wonder  vanished  in  darkness 
and  the  scent  of  the  man  poured  up  to  him 
on  the  lake's  breath,  the  little  fellow  bounded 
away  —  alas !  straight  up  the  deer  path,  at 
right  angles  to  the  course  his  mother  had 
taken  a  moment  before. 

Five  minutes  later  I  heard  the  mother  call- 
ing a  strange  note  in  the  direction  he  had 
taken,  and  went  up  the  deer  path  very  quietly 
to  investigate.  At  the  top  of  the  ridge,  where 
the  path  dropped  away  into  a  dark  narrow 
valley  with  dense  underbrush  on  either  side, 
I  heard  the  fawn  answering  her  below  me 
among  the  big  trees,  and  knew  instantly 
that  something  had  happened.  He  called 


THE  WOODS      H 

continuously,  a  plaintive  cry  of  distress,  in  the 
black  darkness  of  the  spruces.  The  mother 
ran  around  him  in  a  great  circle,  calling  him 
to  come;  while  he  lay  helpless  in  the  same 
spot,  telling  her  he  could  not,  and  that  she 
must  come  to  him.  So  the  cries  went  back 
and  forth  in  the  listening  night.  —  Hoo-wuh, 
"  come  here."  Bla-a-a,  blr-r-t,  "  I  can't ;  come 
here."  Ka-a-a-h,  ka-a-a-h  !  "  danger,  follow ! " 
—  and  then  the  crash  of  brush  as  she  rushed 
away,  followed  by  the  second  fawn ;  whom  she 
must  save,  though  she  abandoned  the  heed- 
less one  to  prowlers  of  the  night. 

It  was  clear  enough  what  had  happened. 
The  cries  of  the  wilderness  have  all  their 
meaning,  if  one  but  knows  how  to  interpret 
them.  Running  through  the  dark  woods,  his 
untrained  feet  had  missed  their  landing,  and 
he  lay  now  under  some  rough  windfall,  with 
a  broken  leg  to  remind  him  of  the  lesson  he 
had  neglected  so  long. 

I  was  stealing  along  towards  him,  feeling 
my  way  among  the  trees  in  the  darkness, 
stopping  every  moment  to  listen  to  his  cry 


Cry  in  ihe 


¥     SCffOOL  OF 

to  guide  me,  when  a  heavy  rustle  came  creep- 
ing down  the  hill  and  passed  close  before  me. 
Something,  perhaps,  in  the  sound  —  a  heavy 
though  almost  noiseless  onward  push,  which 
only  one  creature  in  the  woods  can  possibly 
make  —  something,  perhaps,  in  a  faint  new 
odor  in  the  moist  air  told  me  instantly  that 
keener  ears  than  mine  had  heard  the  cry; 
that  Mooween  the  bear  had  left  his  blueberry 
patch,  and  was  stalking  the  heedless  fawn, 
whom  he  knew,  by  the  hearing  of  his  ears,  to 
have  become  separated  from  his  watchful 
mother  in  the  darkness. 

I    regained    the    path    silently  —  though 
Mooween  heeds  nothing  when  his  game  is 
afoot  —  and  ran  back  to  the  canoe  for  my 
rifle.     Ordinarily  a  bear  is  timid  as  a  rab- 
bit ;  but  I  had  never  met  one  so  late  at  night 
before,    and    knew   not   how   he  would   act 
should  I  take  his  game  away.     Besides,  there 
is  everything  in  the  feeling  with  which  one 
approaches  an  animal.     If  one  comes  timidly, 
doubtfully,  the  animal  knows  it;  and  if  one 
comes  swift,  silent,  resolute,  with  his  power 


THE  WOODS      & 

gripped  tight,  and  the  hammer  back,  and  a 
forefinger  resting  lightly  on  the  trigger  guard, 
the  animal  knows  it  too  you  may  depend. 
Anyway,  they  always  act  as  if  they  knew;  and 
you  may  safely  follow  the  rule  that,  whatever 
your  feeling  is,  whether  fear  or  doubt  or  con- 
fidence, the  large  and  dangerous  animals  will 
sense  it  instantly  and  adopt  the  opposite 
feeling  for  their  rule  of  action.  That  is  the 
way  I  have  always  found  it  in  the  wilderness. 
I  met  a  bear  once  on  a  narrow  path  —  but  I 
must  tell  about  that  elsewhere. 

The  cries  had  ceased;  the  woods  were  all 
dark  and  silent  when  I  came  back.  I  went 
as  swiftly  as  possible  —  without  heed  or  cau- 
tion ;  for  whatever  crackling  I  made  the  bear 
would  attribute  to  the  desperate  mother  —  to 
the  spot  where  I  had  turned  back.  Thence 
I  went  on  cautiously,  taking  my  bearings 
from  one  great  tree  on  the  ridge  that  lifted 
its  bulk  against  the  sky;  slower  and  slower, 
till,  just  this  side  a  great  windfall,  a  twig 
cracked  sharply  under  my  foot.  It  was 
answered  instantly  by  a  grunt  and  a  jump 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

beyond  the  windfall  —  and  then  the  crashing 
rush  of  a  bear  up  the  hill,  carrying  some- 
thing that  caught  and  swished  loudly  on  the 
bushes  as  it  passed,  till  the  sounds  vanished 
in  a  faint  rustle  far  away,  and  the  woods  were 
still  again. 

All  night  long,  from  my  tent  over  beyond 
an  arm  of  the  big  lake,  I  heard  the  mother 
calling  at  intervals.  She  seemed  to  be  run- 
ning back  and  forth  along  the  ridge,  above 
where  the  tragedy  had  occurred.  Her  nose 
told  her  of  the  bear  and  the  man ;  but  what 
awful  thing  they  were  doing  with  her  little 
one  she  knew  not.  Fear  and  questioning 
were  in  the  calls  that  floated  down  the  ridge 
and  across  the  water  to  my  little  tent. 

At  daylight  I  went  back  to  the  spot.  I 
found  without  trouble  where  the  fawn  had 
fallen ;  the  moss  told  mutely  of  his  struggle ; 
and  a  stain  or  two  showed  where  Mooween 
grabbed  him.  The  rest  was  a  plain  trail,  of 
crushed  moss  and  bent  grass  and  stained 
leaves,  and  a  tuft  of  soft  hair  here  and  there 
on  the  jagged  ends  of  knots  in  the  old 


THE  WOODS      « 

windfalls.  So  the  trail  hurried  up  the  hill 
into  a  wild  rough  country,  where  it  was  of 
no  use  to  follow. 

As  I  climbed  the  last  ridge  on  my  way 
back  to  the  lake,  I  heard  rustlings  in  the 
underbrush,  and  then  the  unmistakable  crack 
of  a  twig  under  a  deer's  foot.  The  mother 
had  winded  me ;  she  was  now  following  and 
circling  down  wind,  to  find  out  whether  her 
lost  fawn  were  with  me.  As  yet  she  knew 
not  what  had  happened.  The  bear  had 
frightened  her  into  extra  care  of  the  one  fawn 
of  whom  she  was  sure.  The  other  had 
simply  vanished  into  the  silence  and  mys- 
tery of  the  great  woods. 

Where  the  path  turned  downward,  in  sight 
of  the  lake,  I  saw  her  for  a  moment  plainly, 
standing  half  hid  in  the  underbrush,  looking 
intently  at  my  old  canoe.  She  saw  me  at 
the  same  instant  and  bounded  away,  quarter- 
ing up  the  hill  in  my  direction.  Near  a 
thicket  of  evergreen  that  I  had  just  passed, 
she  sounded  her  hoarse  K-a-a-h,  k-a-a-h  !  and 
threw  up  her  flag.  There  was  a  rush  within 


the  thicket ;  a  sharp  k-a-a-h  !  answered  hers. 
Then  the  second  fawn  burst  out  of  the  cover 
where  she  had  hidden  him,  and  darted  along 
the  ridge  after  her,  jumping  like  a  big  red 
fox  from  rock  to  rock,  rising  like  a  hawk 
over  the  windfalls,  hitting  her  tracks  wherever 
he  could,  and  keeping  his  little  nose  hard 
down  to  his  one  needful  lesson  of  following 
the  white  flag. 


,.^ 
THETlS 


SHttAWK 


whit,  chwee?  Whit,  whit,  whit, 
ctiweeeeee !  over  my  head  went  the 
shrill  whistling,  the  hunting  cry  of  Isma- 
ques.  Looking  up  from  my  fishing,  I  could 
see  the  broad  wings  sweeping  over  me,  and 
catch  the  bright  gleam  of  his  eye  as  he 
looked  down  into  my  canoe,  or  behind  me 
at  the  cold  place  among  the  rocks,  to  see  if  I 
were  catching  anything.  Then,  as  he  noted 
the  pile  of  fish,  —  a  blanket  of  silver  on  the 
black  rocks,  where  I  was  stowing  away  chub 
for  bear  bait,  —  he  would  drop  lower  in  amaze- 
ment to  see  how  I  did  it.  When  the  trout 
were  not  rising,  and  his  keen  glance  saw  no 
gleam  of  red  and  gold  in  my  canoe,  he  would 
circle  off  with  a  cheery  K'weee !  the  good- 
luck  call  of  a  brother  fisherman.  For  there  is 

73 


74 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

no  envy  nor  malice  nor  any  uncharitableness 
*n  ^smaclues'     He  lives  'm  harmony  with  the 
ffte  Fishhawk  world,  and  seems  glad  when  you  land  a  big 
one,  though  he  is  hungry  himself,  and  the 
clamor  from  his  nest,  where  his  little  ones 
are  crying,  is  too  keen  for  his  heart's  content. 
What  is  there  in  going  a-fishing,  I  wonder, 
that  seems  to  change  even  the  leopard's  spots, 
and  that  puts  a  new  heart  into  the  man  who 
hies  him  away  to  the  brook  when  buds  are 
swelling?      There   is    Keeonekh    the    otter. 
Before  he  turned  fisherman  he  was  fierce, 
cruel,  bloodthirsty,  with  a  vile  smell  about 
him,  like  all  the  other  weasels.    Now  he  lives 
at  peace  with    all  the  world   and  is  clean, 
gentle,  playful  as  a  kitten  and  faithful  as  a 
dog  when  you  make  a  pet  of  him.     And 
there  is  Ismaques  the  fishhawk.     Before  he 
turned  fisherman  he  was  hated,  like  every 
other  hawk,  for  his  fierceness  and  his  bandit 
ways.     The  shadow  of  his  wings  was  the 
signal  for  hiding  to  all  the  timid  ones.    Jay 
and  crow  cried  Thief !  thief !  and  kingbird 
sounded  his  war  cry  and  rushed  out  to 


THE  WOODS      9 

battle.  Now  the  little  birds  build  their  nests 
among  the  sticks  of  his  great  house,  and  the 
shadow  of  his  wings  is  a  sure  protection.  For 
owl  and  hawk  and  wild-cat  have  learned  long 
since  the  wisdom  of  keeping  well  away  from 
Ismaques'  dwelling. 

Not  only  the  birds,  but  men  also,  feel  the 
change  in  Ismaques'  disposition.  I  hardly 
know  a  hunter  who  will  not  go  out  of  his 
way  for  a  shot  at  a  hawk;  but  they  send  a 
hearty  good-luck  after  this  winged  fisherman 
of  the  same  fierce  family,  even  though  they 
see  him  rising  heavily  out  of  the  very  pool 
where  the  big  trout  live,  and  where  they 
expect  to  cast  their  flies  at  sundown.  Along 
the  southern  New  England  shores  his  com- 
ing—  regular  as  the  calendar  itself  —  is 
hailed  with  delight  by  the  fishermen.  One 
state,  at  least,  where  he  is  most  abundant, 
protects  him  by  law;  and  even  our  Puritan 
forefathers,  who  seem  to  have  neither  made 
nor  obeyed  any  game  laws,  looked  upon  him 
with  a  kindly  eye,  and  made  him  an  exception 
to  the  general  license  for  killing.  To  their 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

credit,    be    it    known,   they    once    "publikly 
eePrimanded  "  one    Master   Eliphalet   Bod- 
ffie  Fishhawk  man,  a  son  of  Belial  evidently,  for  violently, 
with  powder  and  shot,  doing  away  with  one 
fishhawk,  and  wickedly  destroying  the  nest 
and  eggs  of  another. 

Whether  this  last  were  also  done  violently, 
with  powder  and  shot,  by  blowing  the  nest 
to  pieces  with  an  old  gun,  or  in  simple  boy- 
fashion  by  shinning  up  the  tree,  the  quaint 
old  town  record  does  not  tell.  But  all  this 
goes  to  show  that  our  ancestors  of  the  coast 
were  kindly  people  at  heart ;  that  they  looked 
upon  this  brave,  simple  fisherman,  who  built 
his  nest  by  their  doors,  much  as  the  German 
village  people  look  upon  the  stork  that  builds 
upon  their  chimneys,  and  regarded  his  com- 
ing as  an  omen  of  good  luck  and  plenty  to 
the  fisher  folk. 

Far  back  in  the  wilderness,  w^here  Ismaques 
builds  his  nest  and  goes  a-fishing  just  as  his 
ancestors  did  a  thousand  years  ago,  one  finds 
the  same  honest  bird,  unspoiled  alike  by 
plenty  or  poverty,  that  excited  our  boyish 


THE  WOODS 


imagination  and  won  the  friendly  regard  of 
our  ancestors  of  the  coast.  Opposite  my 
camp  on  the  lake,  where  I  tarried  long  one 
summer,  charmed  by  the  beauty  of  the  place 
and  the  good  fishing,  a  pair  of  fishhawks 
had  built  their  nest  in  the  top  of  a  great 
spruce  on  the  mountain  side.  It  was  this 
pair  of  birds  that  came  daily  to  circle  over 
my  canoe,  or  over  the  rocks  where  I  fished 
for  chub,  to  see  how  I  fared,  and  to  send  back 
a  cheery  Ctiwee  !  chip,  cKweeee!  "good  luck 
and  good  fishing,"  as  they  wheeled  away.  It 
would  take  a  good  deal  of  argument  now  to 
convince  me  that  they  did  not  at  last  rec- 
ognize me  as  a  fellow-fisherman,  and  were  not 
honestly  interested  in  my  methods  and  success. 
At  first  I  went  to  the  nest,  not  so  much 
to  study  the  fishhawks  as  to  catch  fleeting 
glimpses  of  a  shy,  wild  life  of  the  woods,  which 
is  hidden  from  most  eyes.  The  fishing  was 
good,  and  both  birds  were  expert  fishermen. 
While  the  young  were  growing,  there  was 
always  an  abundance  in  the  big  nest  on  the 
spruce  top.  The  overflow  of  this  abundance, 


77 


the 
Fishhawk 


SCHOOL  OF 


78 


in  the  shape  of  heads,  bones,  and  unwanted 
remnants,  was  cast  over  the  sides  of  the  nest 
ffie  Fishhawk  and  furnished  savory  pickings  for  a  score  of 
hungry  prowlers.    Mink  came  over  from  frog 
hunting  in  the  brook,  drawn  by  the  good 
smell  in  the  air.    Skunks  lumbered  down  from 
the  hill,  with  a  curious,  hollow,  bumping  sound 
to  announce  their  coming.    Weasels,  and  one 
grizzly  old  pine  marten,  too  slow  or  rheumatic 
for  successful  tree  hunting,  glided  out  of  the 
underbrush  and  helped  themselves  without 
asking  leave.    Wild-cats  quarreled  like  fiends 
over  the  pickings;  more  than  once 
I  heard  them  there  screeching  in 
the  night.    And  one  late  afternoon, 
as  I  lingered  in  my  hiding  among 
the    rocks    while    the    shadows    deepened, 
a  big  lucivee  stole  out  of  the  bushes,  as  if 
ashamed   of    himself,    and    took    to    nosing 
daintily  among  the  fish  bones. 

It  was  his  first  appearance,  evidently.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  feast  was  free,  but 
thought  all  the  while  that  he  was  stealing 
somebody's  catch.  One  could  see  it  all  in 


THE  WOODS      9 

his  attitudes,  his  starts  and  listenings,  his  low 

growlings  to  himself.     He  was  bigger  than   /aQQf/es  ffie 

anybody  else  there,  and  had  no  cause  to  be 
afraid;  but  there  is  a  tremendous  respect 
among  all  animals  for  the  chase  law  and  the 
rights  of  others;  and  the  big  cat  felt  it.  He 
was  hungry  for  fish ;  but,  big  as  he  was,  his 
every  movement  showed  that  he  was  ready 
to  take  to  his  heels  before  the  first  little  crea- 
ture that  should  rise  up  and  screech  in  his 
face :  "  This  is  mine  !  "  Later,  when  he  grew 
accustomed  to  things  and  the  fishhawks' 
generosity  in  providing  a  feast  for  all  who 
might  come  in  from  the  wilderness  byways 
and  hedges,  he  would  come  in  boldly  enough 
and  claim  his  own ;  but  now,  moving  stealthily 
about,  halting  and  listening  timidly,  he  fur- 
nished a  study  in  animal  rights  that  repaid  in 
itself  all  the  long  hours  of  watching. 

But  the  hawks  themselves  were  more  inter- 
esting than  their  unbidden  guests.  Ismaques, 
honest  fellow  that  he  is,  mates  for  life,  and 
comes  back  to  the  same  nest  year  after 
year.  The  only  exception  to  this  rule  that  I 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

~       know,  is  in  the  case  of  a  fishhawk,  whom  I 
*  knew  well  as  a  boy,  and  who  lost  his  mate 

the  Fishhawk  °ne  summer  by  an  accident.  The  accident 
came  from  a  gun  in  the  hands  of  an  unthink- 
ing sportsman.  The  grief  of  Ismaques  was 
evident,  even  to  the  unthinking.  One  could 
hear  it  in  the  lonely,  questioning  cry  that  he 
sent  out  over  the  still  summer  woods;  and 
see  it  in  the  sweep  of  his  wings  as  he  went 
far  afield  to  other  ponds  —  not  to  fish,  for 
Ismaques  never  fishes  on  his  neighbor's  pre- 
serves, but  to  search  for  his  lost  mate.  For 
weeks  he  lingered  in  the  old  haunts,  calling 
and  searching  everywhere ;  but  at  last  the  lone- 
liness and  the  memories  were  too  much  for  him. 
He  left  the  place  long  before  the  time  of  migra- 
tion had  come ;  and  the  next  spring  a  strange 
couple  came  to  the  spot,  repaired  the  old  nest, 
and  went  fishing  in  the  pond.  Ordinarily,  the 
birds  respect  each  other's  fishing  grounds,  and 
especially  the  old  nests;  but  this  pair  came 
and  took  possession  without  hesitation,  as  if 
they  had  some  understanding  with  the  former 
owner,  who  never  came  back  again. 


THE  WOODS      & 

The  old  spruce  on  the  mountain  side  had 
been  occupied  many  years  by  my  fishing 
friends.  As  is  usually  the  case,  it  had  given 
up  its  life  to  its  bird  masters.  The  oil  from 
their  frequent  feastings  had  soaked  into  the 
bark,  following  down  and  down,  checking 
the  sap's  rising,  till  at  last  it  grew  discour- 
aged and  ceased  to  climb.  Then  the  tree 
died  and  gave  up  its  branches,  one  by  one,  to 
repair  the  nest  above.  The  jagged,  broken 
ends  showed  everywhere  how  they  had  been 
broken  off  to  supply  the  hawks'  necessities. 

There  is  a  curious  bit  of  building  lore 
suggested  by  these  broken  branches,  that 
one  may  learn  for  himself  any  springtime 
by  watching  the  birds  at  their  nest  build- 
ing. Large  sticks  are  required  for  a  founda- 
tion. The  ground  is  strewed  with  such ;  but 
Ismaques  never  comes  down  to  the  ground 
if  he  can  avoid  it.  Even  when  he  drops  an 
unusually  heavy  fish,  in  his  flight  above  the 
trees,  he  looks  after  it  regretfully,  but  never 
follows.  He  may  be  hungry,  but  he  will  not 
set  his  huge  hooked  talons  on  the  earth. 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

-       He  cannot   walk,  and   loses   all    his   power 

Ismaciues   there-     So  he  Soes  off  and  fishes  patiently, 
the  fishhawk  hours  long,  to  replace  his  lost  catch. 

When  he  needs  sticks  for  his  nest,  he 
searches  out  a  tree  and  breaks  off  the  dead 
branches  by  his  weight.  If  the  stick  be  stub- 
born, he  rises  far  above  it  and  drops  like  a 
cannon  ball,  gripping  it  in  his  claws  and 
snapping  it  short  off  at  the  same  instant  by 
the  force  of  his  blow.  Twice  I  have  been 
guided  to  where  Ismaques  and  his  mate  were 
collecting  material  by  reports  like  pistol 
shots  ringing  through  the  wood,  as  the  great 
birds  fell  upon  the  dead  branches  and  snapped 
them  off.  Once,  when  he  came  down  too 
hard,  I  saw  him  fall  almost  to  the  ground, 
flapping  lustily,  before  he  found  his  wings 
and  sailed  away  with  his  four-foot  stick  tri- 
umphantly. 

There  is  another  curious  bit  of  bird  lore 
that  I  discovered  here  in  the  autumn,  when, 
much  later  than  usual,  I  came  back  through 
the  lake.  Ismaques,  when  he  goes  away  for 
the  long  winter  at  the  South,  does  not  leave 


THE  WOODS      © 

his  house  to  the  mercy  of  the  winter  storms 
until  he  has  first  repaired  it.  Large  fresh 
sticks  are  wedged  in  firmly  across  the  top  of 
the  nest;  doubtful  ones  are  pulled  out  and 
carefully  replaced,  and  the  whole  structure 
made  shipshape  for  stormy  weather.  This 
careful  repair,  together  with  the  fact  that  the 
nest  is  always  well  soaked  in  oil,  which  pre- 
serves it  from  the  rain,  saves  a  deal  of  trouble 
for  Ismaques.  He  builds  for  life,  and  knows, 
when  he  goes  away  in  the  fall,  that,  barring 
untoward  accidents,  his  house  will  be  waiting 
for  him  with  the  quiet  welcome  of  old  asso- 
ciations when  he  comes  back  in  the  spring. 
Whether  this  is  a  habit  of  all  ospreys,  or 
only  of  the  two  on  Big  Squatuk  Lake  —  who 
were  very  wise  birds  in  other  ways  —  I  am 
unable  to  say. 

What  becomes  of  the  young  birds  is  also, 
to  me,  a  mystery.  The  home  ties  are  very 
strong,  and  the  little  ones  stay  with  the 
parents  much  longer  than  other  birds  do,  as 
a  rule ;  but  when  the  spring  comes  you  will 
see  only  the  old  birds  at  the  home  nest.  The 


SCHOOL  Of 


young  come  back  to  the  same  general  neigh- 
borhood, I  think ;  but  where  the  lake  is  small 


84 

Ismactues 
ffte  Fishhawk  they  never  build  nor  trespass  on  the  same 

waters.  As  with  the  kingfishers,  each  pair 
of  birds  seem  to  have  their  own  pond  or  por- 
tion ;  but  by  what  old  law  of  the  waters  they 
find  and  stake  their  claim  is  yet  to  be  dis- 
covered. 

There  were  two  little  ones  in  the  nest 
when  I  first  found  it;  and  I  used  to  watch 
them  in  the  intervals  when  nothing  was  stir- 
nng  in  the  underbrush  near  my  hiding  place. 
They  were  happy,  whistling  little  fellows, 
well  fed  and  contented  with  the  world.  At 
times  they  would  stand  for  hours  on  the  edge 
of  the  nest,  looking  down  over  the  slanting 
tree-tops  to  the  lake,  finding  the  great  rust- 
ling green  world,  and  the  passing  birds,  and 
the  glinting  of  light  on  the  sparkling  water, 
and  the  hazy  blue  of  the  distant  mountains 
marvelously  interesting,  if  one  could  judge 
from  their  attitude  and  their  pipings.  Then 
a  pair  of  broad  wings  would  sweep  into  sight, 
and  they  would  stretch  their  wings  wide 


THE  WOODS      ® 

and  break  into  eager  whistlings, — Pip,  pip, 
c/iwee  ?  chip,  cliweeeeee  ?  "  did  you  get  him  ? 
is  he  a  big  one,  mother? "  And  they  would 
stand  tiptoeing  gingerly  about  the  edge  of 
the  great  nest,  stretching  their  necks  eagerly 
for  a  first  glimpse  of  the  catch. 

At  times  only  one  of  the  old  birds  would 
go  a-fishing,  while  the  other  watched  the  nest. 
But  when  luck  was  poor  both  birds  would 
seek  the  lake.  At  such  times  the  mother 
bird,  larger  and  stronger  than  the  male, 
would  fish  along  the  shore,  within  sight  and 
hearing  of  her  little  ones.  The  male,  mean- 
while, would  go  sweeping  down  the  lake  to 
the  trout  pools  at  the  outlet,  where  the  big 
chub  lived,  in  search  of  better  fishing  grounds. 
If  the  wind  were  strong,  you  would  see  a 
curious  bit  of  sea  lore  as  he  came  back  with 
his  fish.  He  would  never  fly  straight 
against  the  wind,  but  tack  back  and 
forth,  as  if  he  had  learned  the  trick 
from  watching  the  sailor  fishermen 
of  the  coast  beating  back  into  har- 
bor. And,  watching  him  through 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

~6  your  glass,  you  would  see  that  he  always  car- 
y^  ried  his  fish  endwise  and  head  first,  so  as  to 

ffie  Fishhawk  present  the  least  possible  resistance  to  the 
breeze. 

While  the  young  were  being  fed,  you  were 
certain  to  gain  new  respect  for  Ismaques  by 
seeing  how  well  he  brought  up  his  little  ones. 
If  the  fish  were  large,  it  was  torn  into  shreds 
and  given  piecemeal  to  the  young,  each  of 
whom  waited  for  his  turn  with  exemplary 
patience.  There  was  no  crowding  or  push- 
ing for  the  first  and  biggest  bite,  such  as  you 
see  in  a  nest  of  robins.  If  the  fish  were 
small,  it  was  given  entire  to  one  of  the  young, 
who  worried  it  down  as  best  he  could,  while 
the  mother  bird  swept  back  to  the  lake  for 
another.  The  second  nestling  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  nest  meanwhile,  whistling  good 
luck  and  waiting  his  turn,  without  a  thought, 
apparently,  of  seizing  a  share  from  his  mate 
beside  him. 

Just  under  the  hawks  a  pair  of  jays  had 
built  their  nest  among  the  sticks  of  Ismaques' 
dwelling,  and  raised  their  young  on  the 


THE  WOODS 


abundant  crumbs  which  fell  from  the  rich 
man's  table.  It  was  curious  and  intensely 
interesting  to  watch  the  change  which  seemed 
to  be  going  on  in  the  jays'  disposition  by 
reason  of  the  unusual  friendship.  Deedee- 
askh  the  jay  has  not  a  friend  among  the 
wood  folk.  They  all  know  he  is  a  thief 
and  a  meddler,  and  hunt  him  away  without 
mercy  if  they  find  him  near  their  nests.  But 
the  great  fishhawks  welcomed  him,  trusted 
him ;  and  he  responded  nobly  to  the  unusual 
confidence.  He  never  tried  to  steal  from 
the  young,  not  even  when  the  mother  bird 
was  away,  but  contented  himself  with  picking 
up  the  stray  bits  that  they  had  left.  And  he 
more  than  repaid  Ismaques  by  the  sharp 
watch  which  he  kept  over  the  nest,  and 
indeed  over  all  the  mountain  side.  Nothing 
passes  in  the  woods  without  the  jay's  knowl- 
edge ;  and  here  he  seemed,  for  all  the  world, 
like  a  watchful  terrier,  knowing  that  he  had 
only  to  bark  to  bring  a  power  of  wing  and 
claw  sufficient  to  repel  any  danger.  When 
prowlers  came  down  from  the  mountain  to 


gg     feast  on  the  heads  and  bones  scattered  about 

Ismaaues  the  foot  of  the  tree'  Deedeeaskh  dropped 
ffie  Fishhawk  down  among  them  and  went  dodging  about, 
whistling  his  insatiable  curiosity.  So  long 
as  they  took  only  what  was  their  own,  he 
made  no  fuss  about  it ;  but  he  was  there  to 
watch,  and  he  let  them  know  sharply  their 
mistake,  if  they  showed  any  desire  to  cast 
evil  eyes  at  the  nest  above. 

Once,  as  my  canoe  was  gliding  along  the 
shore,  I  heard  the  jays'  unmistakable  cry  of 
danger.  The  fishhawks  were  wheeling  in 
great  circles  over  the  lake,  watching  for  the 
glint  of  fish  near  the  surface,  when  the  cry 
came,  and  they  darted  away  for  the  nest. 
Pushing  out  into  the  lake,  I  saw  them  sweep- 
ing above  the  tree-tops  in  swift  circles,  utter- 
ing short,  sharp  cries  of  anger.  Presently 
they  began  to  swoop  fiercely  at  some  animal 
—  a  fisher,  probably  —  that  was  climbing  the 
tree  below.  I  stole  up  to  see  what  it  was; 
but  ere  I  reached  the  place  they  had  driven 
the  intruder  away.  I  heard  one  of  the  jays 
far  off  in  the  woods,  following  the  robber  and 


"PRESENTLY   THEY   BEGAN  TO  SWOOP 
FIERCELY   AT  SOME   ANIMAL" 


screaming  to  let  the  fishhawks  know  just 
where  he  was.  The  other  jay  sat  close  by 
her  own  little  ones,  cowering  under  the 
shadow  of  the  great  dark  wings  above.  And 
presently  Deedeeaskh  came  back,  bubbling 
over  with  the  excitement,  whistling  to  them 
in  his  own  way  that  he  had  followed  the  ras- 
cal clear  to  his  den,  and  would  keep  a  sharp 
watch  over  him  in  future. 

When  a  big  hawk  came  near,  or  when,  on 
dark  afternoons,  a  young  owl  took  to  hunting 
in  the  neighborhood,  the  jays  sounded  the 
alarm,  and  the  fishhawks  swept  up  from  the 
lake  on  the  instant.  Whether  Deedeeaskh 
were  more  concerned  for  his  own  young  than 
for  the  young  fishhawks  I  have  no  means  of 
knowing.  The  fishermen's  actions  at  such 
times  showed  a  curious  mixture  of  fear  and 
defiance.  The  mother  would  sit  on  the  nest 
while  Ismaques  circled  over  it,  both  birds 
uttering  a  shrill,  whistling  challenge.  But 
they  never  attacked  the  feathered  robbers, 
as  they  had  done  with  the  fisher,  and,  so  far 
as  I  could  see,  there  was  no  need.  Kookoos- 


ffie 


92 

/s/naQi/es 
the  Fishhawk 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

koos  the  owl  and  Hawahak  the  hawk  might 
be  very  hungry ;  but  the  sight  of  those  great 
wings  circling  over  the  nest  and  the  shrill 
cry  of  defiance  in  their  ears  sent  them  hur- 
riedly away  to  other  hunting  grounds. 

There  was  only  one  enemy  that  ever  seri- 
ously troubled  the  fishhawks ;  and  he  did  it  in 
as  decent  a  sort  of  way  as  was  possible 
under  the  circumstances.  That  was 
Cheplahgan  the  eagle.  When  he  was 
hungry  and  had  found  nothing  himself, 
and  his  two  eaglets,  far  away  in  their  nest  on 
the  mountain,  needed  a  bite  of  fish  to  vary 
their  diet,  he  would  set  his  wings  to  the 
breeze  and  mount  up  till  he  could  see  both 
ospreys  at  their  fishing.  There,  sailing  in 
slow  circles,  he  would  watch  for  hours  till 
he  saw  Ismaques  catch  a  big  fish,  when  he 
would  drop  like  a  bolt  and  hold  him  up  at  the 
point  of  his  talons,  like  any  other  highway- 
man. It  was  of  no  use  trying  to  escape. 
Sometimes  Ismaques  would  attempt  it,  but 
the  great  dark  wings  would  whirl  around 
and  strike  down  a  sharp  and 


THE  WOODS 


unmistakable  warning.  It  always  ended  the 
same  way.  Ismaques,  being  wise,  would  drop 
his  fish,  and  the  eagle  would  swoop  down 
after  it,  often  seizing  it  ere  it  reached  the 
water.  But  he  never  injured  the  fishhawks, 
and  he  never  disturbed  the  nest.  So  they 
got  along  well  enough  together.  Cheplahgan 
had  a  bite  of  fish  now  and  then  in  his  own 
way;  and  honest  Ismaques,  who  never  went 
long  hungry,  made  the  best  of  a  bad  situation. 
Which  shows  that  fishing  has  also  taught  him 
patience,  and  a  wise  philosophy  of  living. 

The  jays  took  no  part  in  these  struggles. 
Occasionally  they  cried  out  a  sharp  warning  as 
Cheplahgan  came  plunging  down  out  of  the 
blue,  over  the  head  of  Ismaques;  but  they 
seemed  to  know  perfectly  how  the  unequal 
contest  must  end,  and  they  always  had  a 
deal  of  jabber  among  themselves  over  it,  the 
meaning  of  which  I  could  never  make  out. 

As  for  myself,  I  am  sure  that  Deedeeaskh 
could  never  make  up  his  mind  what  to  think 
of  me.  At  first,  when  I  came,  he  would  cry 
out  a  danger  note  that  brought  the  fishhawks 


ffie 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

circling  over  their  nest,  looking  down  into 
*ke  underkrush  with  wild  yellow  eyes  to  see 
ffie  Fishhawk  what  danger  threatened.  But  after  I  had 
hidden  myself  away  a  few  times,  and  made 
no  motion  to  disturb  either  the  nest  or  the 
hungry  prowlers  that  came  to  feast  on  the  fish- 
hawks'  bounty,  Deedeeaskh  set  me  down  as 
an  idle,  harmless  creature  who  would,  never- 
theless, bear  watching.  He  never  got  over 
his  curiosity  to  know  what  brought  me  there. 
Sometimes,  when  I  thought  him  far  away,  I 
would  find  him  suddenly  on  a  branch  just 
over  my  head,  looking  down  at  me  intently. 
When  I  went  away  he  would  follow  me, 
whistling,  to  my  canoe  ;  but  he  never  called 
the  fishhawks  again,  unless  some  unusual 
action  of  mine  aroused  his  suspicion;  and 
after  one  look  they  would  circle  away,  as  if 
they  knew  they  had  nothing  to  fear.  They 
had  seen  me  fishing  so  often  that  they 
thought  they  understood  me,  undoubtedly. 

There  was  one  curious  habit  of  these  birds 
that  I  had  never  noticed  before.  Occasion- 
ally, when  the  weather  threatened  a  change, 


THE  WOODS 


or  when  the  birds  and  their  little  ones  had 
fed  full,  Ismaques  would  mount  up  to  an  enor- 
mous altitude,  where  he  would  sail  about  in 
slow  circles,  his  broad  vans  steady  to  the 
breeze,  as  if  he  were  an  ordinary  hen  hawk, 
enjoying  himself  and  contemplating  the  world 
from  an  indifferent  distance.  Suddenly,  with 
one  clear,  sharp  whistle  to  announce  his  inten- 
tion, he  would  drop  like  a  plummet  for  a 
thousand  feet,  catch  himself  in  mid-air,  and 
zigzag  down  to  the  nest  in  the  spruce  top, 
whirling,  diving,  tumbling,  and  crying  aloud 
the  while  in  wild,  ecstatic  exclamations, — just 
as  a  woodcock  comes  whirling,  plunging, 
twittering  down  from  a  height  to  his  brown 
mate  in  the  alders  below.  Then  Ismaques 
would  mount  up  again  and  repeat  his  dizzy 
plunge,  while  his  larger  mate  stood  quiet  in 
the  spruce  top,  and  the  little  fishhawks  tip- 
toed about  the  edge  of  the  nest,  pip-pipping 
their  wonder  and  delight  at  their  own  papa's 
dazzling  performance. 

This    is    undoubtedly   one    of    Ismaques' 
springtime  habits,  by  which  he  tries  to  win 


95 


the 
"ishhau/k 


fhe 


an  admiring  look  from  the  keen  yellow  eyes 
of  his  mate  ;  but  I  noticed  him  using  it  more 
^reclueri^y  as  tne  ntt^e  fishhawks'  wings 
spread  to  a  wonderful  length,  and  he  was 
trying,  with  his  mate,  by  every  gentle  means 
to  induce  them  to  leave  the  nest.  And  I 
have  wondered  —  without  being  able 
at  all  to  prove  my  theory  —  whether 
he  were  not  trying  in  this  remark- 
able way  to  make  his  little  ones 
want  to  fly  by  showing  them  how 
wonderful  a  thing  flying  could  be 
made  to  be. 


97 


HERE  came  a  day  when,  as  I  sat 
fishing  among  the  rocks,  the  cry  of 
the  mother  osprey  changed  as  she 
came  sweeping  up  to  my  fishing 
grounds,  —  Chip,  ch  'wee  !  Chip,  chip, 
ch'weeeee?  That  was  the  fisherman's  hail 
plainly  enough ;  but  there  was  another  note 
in  it,  a  look-here  cry  of  triumph  and  satisfac- 
tion. Before  I  could  turn  my  head  —  for  a 
fish  was  nibbling  —  there  came  other  sounds 
behind  it,  —  Pip,  pip,  pip,  ch  "weee !  pip, 
ch  'wee  !  pip  ch  "weeee  !  —  a  curious  medley,  a 
hail  of  good-luck  cries ;  and  I  knew  without 
turning  that  two  other  fishermen  had  come 
to  join  the  brotherhood. 

99 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

The    mother    bird  —  one     can    tell    her 
f 


100 

instantly   by   her   greater    size    and    darker 


breast  markings  —  veered  in  as  I  turned  to 
greet  the  newcomers,  and  came  directly  over 
my  head,  her  two  little  ones  flapping  lustily 
behind  her.  Two  days  before,  when  I  went 
down  to  another  lake  on  an  excursion  after 
bigger  trout,  the  young  fishhawks  were  still 
standing  on  the  nest,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to 
all  the  old  birds'  assurances  that  the  time 
had  come  to  use  their  big  wings.  The  last 
glimpse  I  had  of  them  through  my  glass 
showed  me  the  mother  bird  in  one  tree,  the 
father  in  another,  each  holding  a  fish,  which 
they  were  showing  the  young  across  a  tan- 
talizing short  stretch  of  empty  air,  telling  the 
young,  in  fishhawk  language,  to  come  across 
and  get  it;  while  the  young  birds,  on  their 
part,  stretched  wings  and  necks  hungrily  and 
tried  to  whistle  the  fish  over  to  them,  as 
one  would  call  a  dog  across  the  street.  In 
the  short  interval  that  I  was  absent,  mother 
wiles  and  mother  patience  had  done  their 
good  work.  The  young  were  already  flying 


THE  WOODS 


well.  Now  they  were  out  for  their  first 
lesson  in  fishing,  evidently;  and  I  stopped 
fishing  myself,  letting  my  bait  sink  into  the 
mud  —  where  an  eel  presently  tangled  my 
hooks  into  an  old  root  —  to  see  how  it  was 
done.  For  fishing  is  not  an  instinct  with 
Ismaques,  but  a  simple  matter  of  training. 
As  with  young  otters,  they  know  only  from 
daily  experience  that  fish,  and  not  grouse 
and  rabbits,  are  their  legitimate  food.  Left 
to  themselves,  especially  if  one  should  bring 
them  up  on  flesh  and  then  turn  them  loose, 
they  would  go  straight  back  to  the  old  hawk 
habit  of  hunting  the  woods,  which  is  much 
easier.  To  catch  fish,  therefore,  they  must 
be  taught  from  the  first  day  they  leave  the 
nest.  And  it  is  a  fascinating  experience  for 
any  man  to  watch  the  way  they  go  about  it. 
The  young  ospreys  flew  heavily  in  short 
irregular  circles,  scanning  the  water  with 
their  inexperienced  eyes  for  their  first  strike. 
Over  them  wheeled  the  mother  bird  on  broad, 
even  wings,  whistling  directions  to  the  young 
neophytes,  who  would  presently  be  initiated 


101 

\chool  For 
(r<=/7///e 
^fishermen 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

into  the  old  sweet  mysteries  of  going  a-fishing. 
_>/  5  h     If       ^s^   were   plenty  enough;  but  that  means 


<y////e  ~^±f  nothing  to  a  fishhawk,   who   must   see    his 
i£I^z£i~mcn  game  reasonably  near  the  surface  before  mak- 
^S*  in&   kis    swoop.     There  was   a   good   jump 

**  on  the  lake,  and  the  sun  shone  brightly  into 

it.  Between  the  glare  and  the  motion  on 
the  surface  the  young  fishermen  were  having 
a  hard  time  of  it.  Their  eyes  were  not  yet 
quick  enough  to  tell  them  when  to  swoop. 
At  every  gleam  of  silver  in  the  depths  below 
they  would  stop  short  and  cry  out:  Pip! 
"  there  he  is!  "  Pip,  pip!  "  here  goes  !  "  like  a 
boy  with  his  first  nibble.  But  a  short,  clear 
whistle  from  the  mother  stopped  them  ere 
they  had  begun  to  fall ;  and  they  would  flap 
up  to  her,  protesting  eagerly  that  they  could 
catch  that  fellow,  sure,  if  she  would  only  let 
them  try. 

As  they  wheeled  in  over  me  on  their  way 
down  the  lake,  one  of  the  youngsters  caught 
the  gleam  of  my  pile  of  chub  among  the 
rocks.  Pip,  ch^weee!  he  whistled,  and  down 
they  came,  both  of  them,  like  rockets.  They 


103 


fishermen 


THE  WOODS      ® 

were   hungry ;   here    were    fish    galore ;    and 

they  had  not  noticed  me  at  all,  sitting  very    sj  ^  fr      if 

still  among  the  rocks.     Pip, pip, pip,  hurrah! 

they  piped  as  they  came  down. 

But  the  mother  bird,  who  had   noted  me 
and  my  pile  of  fish  the  first  thing  as  she 
rounded  the  point,  swept  in  swiftly 
with   a  curious,   half-angry,   half- 
anxious  chiding  that  I  had  never  heard    ^>  V 
from   her   before,  —  Chip   chip,  chip  ^ 
Chip!  Chip! — growing  sharper  and 
shriller  at  each  repetition,  till  they  heeded 
it  and  swerved  aside.     As  I  looked  up  they 
were  just  over  my  head,  looking  down  at  me 
now  with  eager,  wondering  eyes.     Then  they 
were  led  aside  in  a  wide  circle  and   talked 
to  with  wise,  quiet  whistlings   before  they 
were  sent  back  to  their  fishing  again. 

And  now  as  they  sweep  round  and  round 
over  the  edge  of  a  shoal,  one  of  the  little 
fellows  sees  a  fish  and  drops  lower  to  follow 
it.  The  mother  sees  it  too ;  notes  that  thel 
fish  is  slanting  up  to  the  surface,  and  wisely 
lets  the  young  fisherman  alone.  He  is  too 


SCHOOL  OF 


x*  c  E^      r  £ 
^1  School  for 

~fif°Iie 


near  the  water  now  ;  the  glare  and  the  dancing 

waves   bother   him;    he  loses  his  gleam  of 

6 
silver  in  the  flash  of  a  whitecap.     Mother 

bird  mounts  higher,  and  whistles  him  up 
where  he  can  see  better.  But  there  is  the 
fish  again,  and  the  youngster,  hungry  and 
heedless,  sets  his  wings  for  a  swoop.  Chip, 
chip!  "wait,  he's  going  down,"  cautions  the 
mother;  but  the  little  fellow,  too  hungry  to 
wait,  shoots  down  like  an  arrow.  He  is  a 
yard  above  the  surface  when  a  big  whitecap 
jumps  up  at  him  and  frightens  him.  He 
hesitates,  swerves,  flaps  lustily  to  save  himself. 
Then  under  the  whitecap  is  a  gleam  of  silver 
again.  Down  he  goes  on  the  instant,  —  ugh  ! 
boo!  —  like  a  boy  taking  his  first  dive.  He  is 
out  of  sight  for  a  full  moment,  while  two 
waves  race  over  him,  and  I  hold  my  breath 
waiting  for  him  to  come  up.  Then  he  bursts 
out,  sputtering  and  shaking  him- 
self,  and  of  course  without  his 
fish.  As  he  rises  heavily 
the  mother,  who  has  been 
circling  over  him  whistling 


THE  WOODS 


advice  and  comfort,  stops  short,  with  a 
single  blow  of  her  pinions  against  the  air. 
She  has  seen  the  same  fish,  watched  him 
shoot  away  under  the  plunge  of  her  little 
one,  and  now  sees  him  glancing  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  shoal  where  the  minnows  are 
playing.  She  knows  that  the  young  pupils 
are  growing  discouraged,  and  that  the  time 
has  come  to  hearten  them.  Chip,  chip!  — 
"  watch,  I  '11  show  you,"  she  whistles  — 
Cheeeep!  with  a  sharp  up-slide  at  the  end, 
which  I  soon  grow  to  recognize  as  the  signal 
to  strike.  At  the  cry  she  sets  her  wings  and 
shoots  downward  with  strong,  even  plunge, 
strikes  a  wave  squarely  as  it  rises,  passes 
under  it,  and  is  out  on  the  other  side,  grip- 
ping a  big  chub.  The  little  ones  follow  her, 
whistling  their  delight,  and  telling  her  that 
perhaps  now  they  will  go  back  to  the  nest 
and  take  a  look  at  the  fish  before  they  go  on 
with  their  fishing.  Which  means,  of  course, 
that  they  will  eat  it  and  go  to  sleep  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  good  fun  of  fishing;  and 
then  lessons  are  over  for  the  day. 


hool  For 


,         The  mother,  however,  has  other  thoughts 


/t  S  h  IF  *n  ^er  w*se  neac^  ^ne  knows  that  the  little 
°nes  are  not  Yet  tired,  only  hungry;  and 
that  there  is  much  to  teach  them  before  the 
chub  stop  shoaling  and  they  must  all  be  off 
to  the  coast.  She  knows  also  that  they  have 
thus  far  missed  the  two  things  she  brought 
them  out  to  learn:  to  take  a  fish  always  as 
he  comes  up;  and  to  hit  a  wave  always  on 
the  front  side,  under  the  crest.  Gripping 
her  fish  tightly,  she  bends  in  her  slow  flight 
and  paralyzes  it  by  a  single  blow  in  the  spine 
from  her  hooked  beak.  Then  she  drops  it 
back  into  the  whitecaps,  where,  jumping  to 
the  top  of  my  rock,  I  can  see  it  occasionally 
struggling  near  the  surface.  Cheeeep!  "try 
it  now,"  she  whistles.  Pip,  pip  !  "  here 
goes  !  "  cries  the  little  one  who  failed  before  ; 
and  down  he  drops,  souse!  going  clear  under 
in  his  impatient  hunger,  forgetting  precept 
and  example  and  past  experience. 

Again  the  waves  race  over  him  ;  but  there 
is  a  satisfied  note  in  the  mother's  whistle 
which  tells  me  that  she  sees  him,  and  that 


"GRIPPING   HIS   FISH   AND   PIP-PIPPING 
HIS   EXULTATION" 


he  is  doing  well.  In  a  moment  he  is  out 
again,  with  a  great  rush  and  sputter,  gripping 
his  fish  and  pip-pipping -his  exultation.  Away 
he  goes  in  low  heavy  flight  to  the  nest. 
The  mother  circles  over  him  a  moment  to 
be  sure  he  is  not  overloaded;  then  she  goes 
back  with  the  other  neophyte  and  ranges 
back  and  forth  over  the  shoal's  edge. 

It  is  clear  now  to  even  my  eyes  that  there 
is  a  vast  difference  in  the  characters  of  young 
fishhawks.  The  first  was  eager,  headstrong, 
impatient;  the  second  is  calmer,  stronger, 
more  obedient.  He  watches  the  mother;  he 
heeds  her  signals.  Five  minutes  later  he 
makes  a  clean,  beautiful  swoop  and  comes 
up  with  his  fish.  The  mother  whistles  her 
praise  as  she  drops  beside  him.  My  eyes  fol- 
low them  as,  gossiping  like  two  old  cronies, 
they  wing  their  slow  way  over  the  dancing 
whitecaps  and  climb  the  slanting  tree-tops  to 
the  nest. 

The  day's  lessons  are  over  now,  and  I  go 
back  to  my  bait  catching  with  a  new 
admiration  for  these  winged  members  of  the 


109 


\chool  For 
f^fjffle 
fishermen 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

brotherhood.     Perhaps  there  is  also  a  bit  of 
110 

School  for  envy  or  regret  m  my  medltatlon  as  l  tie 
on  a  new  hook  to  replace  the  one  that  an 

uneasy  eel  is  trying  to  rid  himself  of,  down 
in  the  mud.  If  I  had  only  had  some  one  to 
teach  me  like  that,  I  should  certainly  now 
be  a  better  fisherman. 

Next  day,  when  the  mother  came  up  the 
lake  to  the  shoal  with  her  two  little  ones, 
there  was  a  surprise  awaiting  them.  For 
half  an  hour  I  had  been  watching  from  the 
point  to  anticipate  their  coming.  There  were 
some  things  that  puzzled  me,  and  that  puzzle 
me  still,  in  Ismaques'  fishing.  If  he  caught 
his  fish  in  his  beak,  after  the  methods  of  mink 
and  otter,  I  could  understand  it  better.  But 
to  catch  a  fish  —  whose  dart  is  like  lightning 
—  under  the  water  with  his  feet,  when,  after 
his  plunge,  he  can  see  neither  his  fish  nor 
his  feet,  must  require  some  puzzling  calcula- 
tion. And  I  had  set  a  trap  in  my  head  to 
find  out  how  it  is  done. 

When  the  fishermen  hove  into  sight,  and 
their  eager  pipings  came  faintly  up  the  lake 


THE  WOODS 


ahead  of  them,  I  paddled  hastily  out  and 
turned  loose  a  half-dozen  chub  in  the  shallow 
water.  I  had  kept  them  alive  as  long  as 
possible  in  a  big  pail,  and  they  still  had  life 
enough  to  fin  about  near  the  surface.  When 
the  fishermen  arrived  I  was  sitting  among  the 
rocks  as  usual,  and  turned  to  acknowledge 
the  mother  bird's  Ctiwee?  But  my  deep- 
laid  scheme  to  find  out  their  method  accom- 
plished nothing ;  except,  perhaps,  to  spoil  the 
day's  lesson.  They  saw  my  bait  on  the  in- 
stant. One  of  the  youngsters  dove  headlong 
without  poising,  went  under,  missed 
his  fish,  rose,  plunged  again.  He  got 
him  that  time  and  went  away  sputter- 
ing. The  second  took  his  time, 
came  down  on  a  long  swift  slant, 
and  got  his  fish  without  going 
under.  Almost  before  the 
lesson  began  it  was  over. 
The  mother  circled  about 
for  a  few  moments  in  a 
puzzled  sort  of  way, 
watching  the  young 


1 1 1 


hool  for 
fishermen 


f 

" 


I  12 


9     SCHOOL  OJF 

fishermen  flapping  up  the  slope  to  their  nest. 
Jl  School  for   Something    was    wrong.      She    had    fished 
enough  to  know  that  success  means  some- 
thing more  than  good  luck;  and  this  morning 
success  had  come  too  easily.     She  wheeled 
slowly  over  the  shallows,  noting  the  fish  there, 
where  they  plainly  did  not  belong,  and  drop- 
ping to  examine  with  suspicion  one  big  chub 
that  was  floating,  belly  up,  on  the  water.  Then 
she  went  under  with  a  rush,  where  I  could 
not  see,  came  out  again  with  a  fish  for  her- 
self, and  followed  her  little  ones  to  the  nest. 
^l&?      Next  day  I  set  the 
trap  again  in  the  same 
way.     But  the  mother,  with  her 
lesson  well  laid  out  before  her, 
remembered  yesterday's  unearned  success  and 
came  over  to  investigate,  leaving  her  young 
ones  circling  along  the  farther  shore.     There 
were  the  fish  again,  in  shallow  water;   and 
there  —  too  easy  altogether !  —  were  two  dead 
ones  floating  among  the  whitecaps. 
She  wheeled  away  in  a  sharp  turn, 
-  as  if  she  had  not  seen  anything, 


THE  WOODS      9 

whistled  her  pupils  up  to  her,  and  went  on 
to  other  fishing  grounds. 

Presently,  above  the  next  point,  I  heard 
their  pipings  and  the  sharp,  up-sliding  Cheeeep  ! 
which  was  the  mother's  signal  to  swoop. 
Paddling  up  under  the  point  in  my  canoe,  I 
found  them  all  wheeling  and  diving  over  a 
shoal,  where  I  knew  the  fish  were  smaller 
and  more  nimble,  and  where  there  were  lily 
pads  for  a  haven  of  refuge,  whither  no  hawk 
could  follow  them.  Twenty  times  I  saw  them 
swoop  only  to  miss,  while  the  mother  circled 
above  or  beside  them,  whistling  advice  and 
encouragement.  And  when  at  last  they 
struck  their  fish  and  bore  away  towards  the 
mountain,  there  was  an  exultation  in  their 
lusty  wing  beats,  and  in  the  whistling  cry 
they  sent  back  to  me,  which  was  not  there 
the  day  before. 

The  mother  followed  them  at  a  distance, 
veering  in  when  near  my  shoal  to  take 
another  look  at  the  fish  there.  Three  were 
floating  now  instead  of  two;  the  others  — 
what  were  left  of  them  —  struggled  feebly  at 


hool  For 


~fl  School  for 


the  surface.  Chip,  ctiweee!  she  whistled 
disdainfully;  "plenty  fish  here,  but  mighty 
poor  fishing."  Then  she  swooped,  passed 
under,  came  out  with  a  big  chub  and  was 
gone,  leaving  me  only  a  blinding  splash  and 
a  widening  circle  of  laughing,  dancing,  tanta- 
lizing wavelets  to  tell  me  how  she  catches 
them. 


TfiETPARTRIDGES' 
%     ROLL  CALL 

I  WAS  fishing,  one  September  afternoon, 
in  the  pool  at  the  foot  of  the  lake,  trying 
in  twenty  ways,  as  the  dark  evergreen  shadows 
lengthened  across  the  water,  to  beguile  some 
wary  old  trout  into  taking  my  flies.  They 
lived  there,  a  score  of  them,  in  a  dark  well 
among  the  lily  pads,  where  a  cold  spring  bub- 
bled up  from  the  bottom;  and  their  moods 
and  humors  were  a  perpetual  source  of  worry 
or  amusement,  according  to  the  humor  of  the 
fisherman  himself. 

For  days  at  a  time  they  would  lie  in  the 
deep  shade  of  the  lily  pads  in  stupid  or  sullen 
indifference.  Then  nothing  tempted  them. 
Flies,  worms,  crickets,  redfins,  bumblebees, 
—  all  at  the  end  of  dainty  hair  leaders,  were 
drawn  with  crinkling  wavelets  over  their 
heads  or  dropped  gently  beside  them;  but 


117 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

they  only  swirled  sullenly  aside,  grouty  as 
King  Ahab  when  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall  and  would  eat  no  bread. 

At  such  times  scores  of  little  fish  swarmed 
out  of  the  pads  and  ran  riot  in  the  pool. 
Chub,  shiners,  "  punkin-seeds,"  perch,  boiled 
up  at  your  flies,  or  chased  each  other  in  sav- 
age warfare  through  the  forbidden  water, 
which  seemed  to  intoxicate  them  by  its  cool 
freshness.  You  had  only  to  swing  your 
canoe  up  near  the  shadowy  edge  of  the  pool, 
among  the  lily  pads,  and  draw  your  cast 
once  across  the  open  water  to  know  whether 
or  not  you  would  eat  trout  for  breakfast. 
If  the  small  fish  chased  your  flies,  then  you 
might  as  well  go  home  or  study  nature ;  you 
would  certainly  get  no  trout.  But  you  could 
never  tell  when  the  change  would  come. 
With  the  smallest  occasion  sometimes  —  a 
coolness  in  the  air,  the  run  of  a  cats-paw 
breeze,  a  cloud  shadow  drifting  over — a  trans- 
formation would  sweep  over  the  speckled 
Ahabs  lying  deep  under  the  lily  pads.  Some 
blind,  unknown  warning  would  run  through 


THE  WOODS      ® 

the  pool  before  ever  a  trout  had  changed 
his  position.  Looking  over  the  side  of 
your  canoe  you  would  see  the  little  fish 
darting  helter-skelter  away  among  the  pads, 
seeking  safety  in  shallow  water,  leaving  the 
pool  to  its  tyrant  masters.  Now  is  the 
time  to  begin  casting;  your  trout  are  ready 
to  rise. 

A  playful  mood  would  often  follow  the 
testy  humor.  The  plunge  of  a  three-pound 
fish,  the  slap-dash  of  a  dozen  smaller  ones 
would  startle  you  into  nervous  casting.  But 
again  you  might  as  well  spare  your  efforts, 
which  only  served  to  acquaint  the  trout  with 
the  best  frauds  in  your  fly  book.  They 
would  rush  at  Hackle  or  Coachman  or  Silver 
Doctor,  swirl  under  it,  jump  over  it,  but 
never  take  it  in.  They  played  with  floating 
leaves;  their  wonderful  eyes  caught  the 
shadow  of  a  passing  mosquito  across  the 
silver  mirror  of  their  roof,  and  their  broad 
tails  flung  them  up  to  intercept  it;  but  they 
wanted  nothing  more  than  play  or  exercise, 
and  they  would  not  touch  your  flies. 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

Once  in  a  way  there  would  come  a  day 
when  >"our  stud^  and  Patience  found  their 


"Roll  Call  rich  reward.  The  slish  of  a  line,  the  flutter 
of  a  fly  dropping  softly  on  the  farther  edge 
of  the  pool  —  and  then  the  shriek  of  your 
reel,  buzzing  up  the  quiet  hillside,  was 
answered  by  a  loud  snort,  as  the  deer  that 
lived  there  bounded  away  in  alarm,  calling 
her  two  fawns  to  follow.  But  you  scarcely 
noticed  ;  your  head  and  hands  were  too  full, 
trying  to  keep  the  big  trout  away  from  the 
lily  pads,  where  you  would  certainly  lose 
him  with  your  light  tackle. 

On  the  afternoon  of  which  I  write  the 
trout  were  neither  playful  nor  sullen.  No 
more  were  they  hungry.  The  first  cast  of 
my  midget  flies  across  the  pool  brought  no 
answer.  That  was  good;  the  little  fish  had 
been  ordered  out,  evidently.  Larger  flies 
followed;  but  the  big  trout  neither  played 
with  them  nor  let  them  alone.  They  fol- 
lowed cautiously,  a  foot  astern,  to  the  near 
edge  of  the  lily  pads,  till  they  saw  me  and 
swirled  down  again  to  their  cool  haunts. 


THE  WOODS      0 

They  were  suspicious  clearly;  and  with  the 

lower  orders,  as  with  men,  the  best  rule  in  ~v    <Parfrid&es* 

such  a  case  is  to  act  naturally,  with  more 
quietness  than  usual,  and  give  them  time  to 
get  over  their  suspicion. 

As  I  waited,  my  flies  resting  among  the 
pads  near  the  canoe,  curious  sounds  came 
floating  down  the  hillside  —  Prut,  prut, 
pr-r-r-rt !  Whit-kwit?  whit-kwit?  Pr-r-rt, 
pr-r-rt!  Ooo-it,  ooo-it?  Pr-r-reeee !  this 
last  with  a  swift  burr  of  wings.  And  the 
curious  sounds,  half  questioning,  half  muffled 
in  extreme  caution,  gave  a  fleeting  impres- 
sion of  gliding  in  and  out  among  the  tan- 
gled underbrush.  "  A  flock  of  partridges,"  I 
thought,  and  turned  to  listen  more  intently. 

The  shadows  had  grown  long,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  coming  night ;  and  other  ears  than 
mine  had  heard  the  sounds  with  interest.  A 
swifter  shadow  fell  on  the  water,  and  I 
looked  up  quickly  to  see  a  big  owl  sail 
silently  out  from  the  opposite  hill  and  perch 
on  a  blasted  stub  overlooking  the  pool. 
Kookooskoos  had  been  sleeping  in  a  big 


122 


W     SCHOOL  Of 

spruce  when  the  sounds  waked  him,  and  he 
started  out  instantly,  not  to  hunt  —  it  was 
still  too  bright  —  but  to  locate  his  game  and 
follow  silently  to  the  roosting  place,  near 
which  he  would  hide  and  wait  till  the  twi- 
light fell  darkly.  I  could  see  it  all  in  his 
attitude  as  he  poised  forward,  swinging  his 
round  head  to  and  fro,  like  a  dog  on  an  air 
trail,  locating  the  flock  accurately  before  he 
should  take  another  flight. 

Up  on  the  hillside  the  eager  sounds  had 
stopped  for  a  moment,  as  if  some  strange  sixth 
sense  had  warned  the  birds  to  be  silent. 
The  owl  was  puzzled ;  but  I  dared  not  move, 
because  he  was  looking  straight  over  me. 
Some  faint  sound,  too  faint  for  my  ears, 
made  him  turn  his  head,  and  on  the  instant 
I  reached  for  the  tiny  rifle  lying  before  me  in 
the  canoe.  Just  as  he  spread  his  wings  to 
investigate  the  new  sound,  the  little  rifle 
spoke,  and  he  tumbled  heavily  to  the  shore. 

"  One  robber  the  less,"  I  was  thinking, 
when  the  canoe  swung  slightly  on  the  water. 
There  was  a  heavy  plunge,  a  vicious  rush  of 


THE  WOODS      9 

my  unheeded  line,  and  I  seized  my  rod  to 
find  myself  fast  to  a  big  trout,  which  had 
been  watching  my  flies  from  his  hiding 
among  the  lily  pads  till  his  suspicions  were 
quieted,  and  the  first  slight  movement  brought 
him  up  with  a  rush. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  lay  in  my  canoe, 
where  I  could  see  him  plainly  to  my  heart's 
content.  I  was  waiting  for  the  pool  to  grow 
quiet  again,  when  a  new  sound  came  from 
the  underbrush,  a  rapid  plop,  lop,  lop,  lop,  lop, 
like  the  sound  in  a  bottle  as  water  is  poured 
in  and  the  air  rushes  out. 

There  was  a  brook  near  the  sounds,  a  lazy 
little  stream  that  had  lost  itself  among  the 
alders  and  forgotten  all  its  music ;  and  my  first 
thought  was  that  some  animal  was  standing 
in  the  water  to  drink,  and  waking  the  voice 
of  the  brook  as  the  current  rippled  past  his 
legs.  The  canoe  glided  over  to  find  out 
what  he  was,  when,  in  the  midst  of  the 
sounds,  came  the  unmistakable  questioning 
Whit-kwit?  of  partridges  —  and  there  they 
were,  just  vanishing  glimpses  of  alert  forms 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

and  keen  eyes  gliding  among  the  tangled 

TO    -/I     L   --jr,        alder  stems.     When  near  the  brook  they  had 
TTte  Partridges*  / 

"Roll  Call   changed  the  soft,  gossipy  chatter,  by  which  a 

flock  holds  itself  together  in  the  wild  tangle 
of  the  burned  lands,  into  a  curious  liquid 
sound,  so  like  the  gurgling  of  water  by  a 
mossy  stone  that  it  would  have  deceived  me 
completely,  had  I  not  seen  the  birds.  It  was 
as  if  they  tried  to  remind  the  little  alder 
brook  of  the  music  it  had  lost  far  back  among 
the  hills. 

Now  I  had  been  straitly  charged,  on  leav- 
ing camp,  to  bring  back  three  partridges  for 
our  Sunday  dinner.  My  own  little  flock  had 
grown  a  bit  tired  of  trout  and  canned  foods ; 
and  a  taste  of  young  broiled  partridges, 
which  I  had  recently  given  them,  had  left 
them  hungry  for  more.  So  I  left  the  pool 
and  my  fishing  rod,  just  as  the  trout  began 
to  rise,  to  glide  into  the  alders  with  my 
pocket  rifle. 

There  were  at  least  a  dozen  birds  there, 
full-grown  and  strong  of  wing,  that  had  not 
yet  decided  to  scatter  to  the  four  winds,  as 


THE  WOODS      & 

had  most  of  the  coveys  which  one  might 
meet  on  the  burned  lands.  All  summer  ^  partridges' 
long,  while  berries  are  plenty,  the  flocks  hold  RoIIjCall^ 
together,  finding  ten  pairs  of  quiet  eyes  much 
better  protection  against  surprises  than  one 
frightened  pair.  Each  flock  is  then  under 
the  absolute  authority  of  the  mother  bird; 
and  one  who  follows  them  gets  some  curious 
and  intensely  interesting  glimpses  of  a  par- 
tridge's education.  If  the  mother  bird  is 
killed  by  owl  or  hawk  or  weasel,  the  flock 
still  holds  together,  while  berries  last,  under 
the  leadership  of  one  of  their  own  number, 
more  bold  or  cunning  than  the  others.  But 
with  the  ripening  autumn,  when  the  birds 
have  learned  or  think  they  have  learned  all 
the  sights  and  sounds  and  dangers  of  the 
wilderness,  the  covey  scatters;  partly  to 
cover  a  wider  range  in  feeding  as  food  grows 
scarcer;  partly  in  natural  revolt  at  maternal 
authority,  which  no  bird  or  animal  likes  to 
endure  after  he  has  once  learned  to 
take  'care  of  himself. 


®     SCHOOL  OF 

g  I  followed  the  flock  rapidly,  though  cau- 
^ous^y>  through  an  interminable  tangle  of 
alders  that  bordered  the  little  stream,  and 
learned  some  things  about  them;  though 
they  gave  me  no  chance  whatever  for  a  rifle 
shot.  The  mother  was  gone;  their  leader 
was  a  foxy  bird,  the  smallest  of  the  lot,  who 
kept  them  moving  in  dense  cover,  running, 
crouching,  hiding,  inquisitive  about  me  and 
watching  me,  yet  keeping  themselves  beyond 
reach  of  harm.  All  the  while  the  leader 
talked  to  them,  a  curious  language  of  cheep 
ings  and  whistlings ;  and  they  answered  back 
with  questions  or  sharp  exclamations  as  my 
head  appeared  in  sight  for  a  moment.  Where 
the  cover  was  densest  they  waited  till  I  was 
almost  upon  them  before  they  whisked  out  of 
sight;  and  where  there  was  a  bit  of  opening 
they  whirred  up  noisily  on  strong  wings,  or 
sailed  swiftly  away  from  a  fallen  log  with  the 
noiseless  flight  that  a  partridge  knows  so  well 
how  to  use  when  the  occasion  comes. 

Already  the  instinct  to  scatter  was  at  work 
among   them.      During   the   day   they   had 


THE  WOODS      9 

probably  been  feeding  separately  along  the 
great  hillside ;  but  with  lengthening  shadows 
they  came  together  again  to  face  the  wilder- 
ness night  in  the  peace  and  security  of  the 
old  companionship.  And  I  had  fortunately 
been  quiet  enough  at  my  fishing  to  hear 
when  the  leader  began  to  call  them  together 
and  they  had  answered,  here  and  there,  from 
their  feeding. 

I  gave  up  following  them  after  a  while  — 
they  were  too  quick  for  me  in  the  alder 
tangle  —  and  came  out  of  the  swamp  to  the 
ridge.  There  I  ran  along  a  deer  path  and 
circled  down  ahead  of  them  to  a  thicket  of 
cedar,  where  ^^-z±  ^^—^-'-^ 

I  thought  ^     ^^  ^^^ 

they  might  pass  the  night. 

Presently  I  heard  them  coming —  Whit- 
kwit?  pr-r-r,  pr-r-r,  prut,  prut !  —  and  saw 
five  or  six  of  them  running  rapidly.  The 
little  leader  saw  me  at  the  same  instant  and 
dodged  back  out  of  sight.  Most  of  his  flock  ^. 
followed  him ;  but  one  bird,  more  inquisitive  V 

than  the  rest,  jumped  to  a  fallen  log,  drew  * 


128 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

himself  up  straight  as  a  string,  and  eyed  me 
steadily.  The  little  rifle  spoke  promptly; 
and  I  stowed  him  away  comfortably,  a  fine 
plump  bird,  minus  his  head,  in  a  big  pocket 
of  my  hunting  shirt. 

At  the  report  another  partridge,  question- 
ing  the    unknown    sound,   flew   to    a   thick 
spruce,  pressed  close  against   the  trunk  to 
hide  himself,  and   stood   listening   intently. 
Whether  he  was  waiting  to  hear  the  sound 
again,  or  was  frightened  and   listening  for 
the  call  of  the  leader,  I  could  not 
tell.     I  fired  quickly,  and  saw  him 
sail  down  against  the  hillside,  with 
a  loud  thump  and  a  flutter  of  feathers  behind 
him  to  tell  me  that  he  was  hard  hit. 

I  followed  him  up  the  hill,  hearing  an 
occasional  flutter  of  wings  to  guide  my  feet, 
till  the  sounds  vanished  into  a  great  tangle 
of  underbrush  and  fallen  trees.  I  searched 
here  ten  minutes  or  more  in  vain,  then  lis- 
tened in  the  vast  silence  for  a  longer  period ; 
but  the  bird  had  hidden  himself  away  and 
was  watching  me,  no  doubt,  out  of  some 


THE  WOODS      9 

covert,  where  an  owl  might  pass  by  with- 
out   finding    him.      Reluctantly    I    turned  <Parfr/d&s* 
away  toward   the  swamp.                                   Roll  Call 

Close  beside  me  was  a  fallen  log;  on 
my  right  was  another;  and  the  two  had 
fallen  so  as  to  make  the  sides  of  a  great 
angle,  their  tops  resting  together  against  the 
hill.  Between  the  two  were  several  huge 
trees  growing  among  the  rocks  and  under- 
brush. I  climbed  upon  one  of  these  fallen 
trees  and  moved  along  it  cautiously,  some 
eight  or  ten  feet  above  the  ground,  looking 
down  searchingly  for  a  stray  brown  feather 
to  guide  me  to  my  lost  partridge. 

Suddenly  the  log  under  my  feet  began 
to  rock  gently.  I  stopped  in  astonishment, 
looking  for  the  cause  of  the  strange  teeter- 
ing ;  but  there  was  nothing  on  the  log  beside 
myself.  After  a  moment  I  went  on  again, 
looking  again  for  my  partridge.  Again  the 
log  rocked,  heavily  this  time,  almost  throw- 
ing me  off.  Then  I  noticed  that  the  tip  of 
the  other  log,  which  lay  balanced  across  a 
great  rock,  was  under  the  tip  of  my  log  and 


SCHOOL 


was  being   pried  up  by  something  on  the 


TTieTPartr/d&es*  otner  en<^-  Some  animal  was  there,  and  it 
7toll  Call  flashed  upon  me  suddenly  that  he  was  heavy 
enough  to  lift  my  weight  with  his  stout 
lever.  I  stole  along  so  as  to  look  behind  a 
great  tree  —  and  there  on  the  other  log,  not 
twenty  feet  away,  a  big  bear  was  standing, 
twisting  himself  uneasily,  trying  to  decide 
whether  to  go  on  or  go  back  on  his  unstable 
footing. 

He  discovered  me  at  the  instant  that 
my  face  appeared  behind  the  tree.  Such 
—  <  surprise,  such  wonder  I  have  seldom  seen 
W  id'JJ  in  an  animal's  face.  For  a  long  moment 
he  met  my  eyes  steadily  with  his.  Then 
he  began  to  twist  again,  while  the  logs 
rocked  up  and  down.  Again  he  looked 
at  the  strange  animal  on  the  other  log;  but 
the  face  behind  the  tree  had  not  moved  nor 
changed ;  the  eyes  looked  steadily  into  his. 
With  a  startled  movement  he  plunged  off 
into  the  underbrush,  and  but  for  a  swift 
grip  on  a  branch  the  sudden  lurch  would 

have   sent  me  off   backward   among   the 


THE  WOODS      9 

rocks.  As  he  jumped  I  heard  a  swift 
flutter  of  wings.  I  followed  it  timidly, 
not  knowing  where  the  bear  was,  and  in  a 
moment  I  had  the  second  partridge  stowed 
away  comfortably  with  his  brother  in  my 
hunting  shirt. 

The  rest  of  the  flock  had  scattered  widely 
by  this  time.  I  found  one  or  two  and  fol- 
lowed them ;  but  they  dodged  away  into  the 
thick  alders,  where  I  could  not  find  them 
quick  enough  with  my  rifle  sight.  After  a 
vain,  hasty  shot  or  two  I  went  back  to  my 
fishing. 

Woods  and  lake  were  soon  quiet  again. 
The  trout  had  stopped  rising,  in  one  of  their 
sudden  moods.  A  vast  silence  brooded  over 
the  place,  unbroken  by  any  buzz  of  my  noisy 
reel,  and  the  twilight  shadows  were  growing 
deeper  and  longer,  when  the  soft,  gliding, 
questioning  chatter  of  partridges  came  float- 
ing out  of  the  alders.  The  leader  was  there, 
in  the  thickest  tangle  —  I  had  learned  in  an 
hour  to  recognize  his  peculiar  Prut,  prut  — 
and  from  the  hillside  and  the  alder  swamp 


and  the  big  evergreens  his  flock  were  answer- 

in£;    here  a  ^^  and  there   a  /r^'  and 
beyond  a  swift  burr  of   wings,  all  drawing 

closer  and  closer  together. 

I  had  still  a  third  partridge  to  get  for  my 
own  hungry  flock;  so  I  stole  swiftly  back 
into  the  alder  swamp.  There  I  found  a 
little  game  path  and  crept  along  it  on  hands 
and  knees,  drawing  cautiously  near  to  the 
leader's  continued  calling. 

In  the  midst  of  a  thicket  of  low  black 
alders,  surrounded  by  a  perfect  hedge  of 
bushes,  I  found  him  at  last.  He  was  on  the 
lower  end  of  a  fallen  log,  gliding  rapidly  up 
and  down,  spreading  wings  and  tail  and  bud- 
ding ruff,  as  if  he  were  drumming,  and  send- 
ing out  his  peculiar  call  at  every  pause. 
Above  him,  in  a  long  line  on  the  same  log, 
five  other  partridges  were  sitting  perfectly 
quiet,  save  now  and  then,  when  an  answer 
came  to  the  leader's  call,  they  would  turn 
their  heads  and  listen  intently  till  the  under- 
brush parted  cautiously  and  another  bird 
flitted  up  beside  them.  Then  another  call, 


"THEY  WOULD  TURN  THEIR    HEADS 
AND   LISTEN    INTENTLY" 


and  from  the  distant  hillside   a  faint  kwit- 

kwit  and  a  rush    of   wings  in  answer,  and  TO 

.,   The 
another  partridge  would   shoot  in  on  swift  Roll  Call. 

pinions  to  pull  himself  up  on  the  log  beside 
his  fellows.  The  line  would  open  hospitably 
to  let  him  in ;  then  the  row  grew  quiet  again, 
as  the  leader  called,  turning  their  heads  from 
side  to  side  for  the  faint  answers. 

There  were  nine  on  the  log  at  last.  The 
calling  grew  louder  and  louder;  yet  for 
several  minutes  now  no  answer  came  back. 
The  flock  grew  uneasy ;  the  leader  ran  from 
his  log  into  the  brush  and  back  again,  calling 
loudly,  while  a  low  chatter,  the  first  break 
in  their  strange  silence,  ran  back  and  forth 
through  the  family  on  the  log.  There  were 
others  to  come;  but  where  were  they,  and 
why  did  they  tarry?  It  was  growing  late; 
already  an  owl  had  hooted,  and  the  roost- 
ing place  was  still  far  away.  Prut,  prut, 
pr-r-r-r-eee  f  called  the  leader,  and  the  chatter 
ceased  as  the  whole  flock  listened. 

I  turned  my  head  to  the  hillside  to  listen 
also  for  the  laggards;  but  there  was  no 


i®     SCHOOL  OF 

,     answer.     Save  for  the    cry  of   a   low-flying 

'    loon  anc* the  snaP  of  a  twi& —  to°  snarP  and 
"Roll  Call    heavy  for  little  feet   to   make  —  the    woods 

were  all  silent.  As  I  turned  to  the  log 
again,  something  warm  and  heavy  rested 
against  my  side.  Then  I  knew;  and  with 
the  knowledge  came  a  swift  thrill  of  regret 
that  made  me  feel  guilty  and  out  of  place  in 
the  silent  woods.  The  leader  was  calling, 
the  silent  flock  were  waiting  for  two  of  their 
number  who  would  never  answer  the  call 
again. 

I  lay  scarcely  ten  yards  from  the  log  on 
which  the  sad  little  drama  went  on  in  the 
twilight  shadows,  while  the  great  silence 
grew  deep  and  deeper,  as  if  the  wilderness 
itself  were  in  sympathy  and  ceased  its  cries 
to  listen.  Once,  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
group,  I  had  raised  my  rifle  and  covered  the 
head  of  the  largest  bird;  but  curiosity  to 
know  what  they  were  doing  held  me  back. 
Now  a  deeper  feeling  had  taken  its  place; 
the  rifle  slid  from  my  hand  and  lay  unnoticed 
among  the  fallen  leaves. 


The  Partridges* 


THE  WOODS      ® 

Again  the  leader  called.  The  flock  drew 
itself  up,  like  a  row  of  gray-brown  statues, 
every  eye  bright,  every  ear  listening,  till  'fioli  Ca/L 
some  vague  sense  of  fear  and  danger  drew 
them  together;  and  they  huddled  on  the 
ground  in  a  close  group,  all  but  the  leader, 
who  stood  above  them,  counting  them  over 
and  over,  apparently,  and  anon  sending  his 
cry  out  into  the  darkening  woods. 

I  took  one  of  the  birds  out  of  my  pocket 
and  began  to  smooth  the  rumpled  brown 
feathers.  How  beautiful  he  was,  how  per- 
fectly adapted  in  form  and  color  for  the  wil- 
derness in  which  he  had  lived !  And  I  had 
taken  his  life,  the  only  thing  he  had.  Its 
beauty  and  something  deeper,  which  is  the 
sad  mystery  of  all  life,  were  gone  forever. 
All  summer  long  he  had  run  about  on  glad 
little  feet,  delighting  in  nature's  abundance, 
calling  brightly  to  his  fellows  as  they  glided 
in  and  out  in  eager  search  through  the  lights 
and  shadows.  Fear  on  the  one  hand,  abso- 
lute obedience  to  his  mother  on  the  other 
had  been  the  two  great  factors  of  his  life. 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

i  g  Between  them  he  grew  strong,  keen,  alert, 
77ie7>artr/dges*  knowin§  perfectly  when  to  run  and  when  to 
~RoH Call  fly  and  when  to  crouch  motionless,  as  danger 
passed  close  with  blinded  eyes.  Then  when 
his  strength  was  perfect,  and  at  last  he  glided 
alone  through  the  wilderness  coverts  in 
watchful  self-dependence — a  moment's  curi- 
osity, a  quick  eager  glance  at  the  strange 
animal  standing  so  still  under  the  cedar,  a 
flash,  a  noise ;  and  all  was  over.  The  call  of 
the  leader  went  searching,  searching  through 
the  woods  ;  but  he  gave  no  heed  any  more. 

The  hand  had  grown  suddenly  very  tender 
as  it  stroked  his  feathers.  I  had  taken  his 
life;  I  must  answer  for  him  now.  I  raised 
my  head  and  gave  the  clear  whit-kwit  of 
a  running  partridge.  Instantly  the  leader 
answered ;  the  flock  sprang  to  the  log  again 
and  turned  their  heads  in  my  direction  to 
listen.  Another  call,  and  now  the  flock 
dropped  to  the  ground  and  lay  close,  while 
the  leader  drew  himself  up  straight  on  the 
log  and  became  part  of  a  dead  stub  beside 
him. 


THE  WOODS      Hf 

Something  was  wrong  in  my  call;  the 
birds  were  suspicious,  knowing  not  what 
danger  had  kept  their  fellows  silent  so 
long,  and  now  threatened  them  out  of  the 
black  alders.  A  moment's  intent  listening; 
then  the  leader  stepped  slowly  down  from 
his  log  and  came  towards  me  cautiously, 
halting,  hiding,  listening,  gliding,  swinging 
far  out  to  one  side  and  back  again  in  stealthy 
advance,  till  he  drew  himself  up  abruptly  at 
sight  of  my  face  peering  out  of  the  under- 
brush. For  a  long  two  minutes  he  never 
stirred  so  much  as  an  eyelid.  Then  he 
glided  swiftly  back,  with  a  faint,  puzzled, 
questioning  kwit-kwit?  to  where  his  flock 
were  waiting.  A  low  signal  that  I  could 
barely  hear,  a  swift  movement  —  then  the 
flock  thundered  away  in  scattered  flight  into 
the  silent,  friendly  woods. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  crouched  in  some 
thick  underbrush  looking  up  into  a  great 
spruce,  when  I  could  just  make  out  the 
leader  standing  by  an  upright  branch  in 
sharp  silhouette  against  the  glowing  west. 


139 


The  Partridges* 


I  had  followed  his  swift  flight,  and  now  lay 
listening  again  to  nis  searching  call  as  it 
went  out  through  the  twilight,  calling  his 
little  flock  to  the  roosting  tree.  From  the 
swamp  and  the  hillside  and  far  down  by  the 
quiet  lake  they  answered,  faintly  at  first,  then 
with  clearer  call  and  the  whirr  of  swift  wings 
as  they  came  in. 

But  already  I  had  seen  and  heard  enough ; 
too  much,  indeed,  for  my  peace  of  mind.  I 
crept  away  through  the  swamp,  the  eager 
calls  following  me  even  to  my  canoe;  first  a 
plaint,  as  if  something  were  lacking  to  the 
placid  lake  and  quiet  woods  and  the  soft 
beauty  of  twilight;  and  then  a  faint  ques- 
tion, always  heard  in  the  kwit  of  a  par- 
tridge, as  if  only  I  could  explain  why  two 
eager  voices  would  never  again  answer  to 
roll  call  when  the  shadows  lengthened. 


WIT 


141 


HERE  are  always  two  surprises  when 
you  meet  a  bear.  You  have  one,  and  he 
has  the  other.  On  your  tramps  and  camps 
in  the  big  woods  you  may  be  on  the  look- 
out for  Mooween ;  you  may  be  eager  and  even 
anxious  to  meet  him;  but  when  you  double 
the  point  or  push  into  the  blueberry  patch 
and,  suddenly,  there  he  is,  blocking  the  path 
ahead,  looking  intently'  into  your  eyes  to 
fathom  at  a  glance  your  intentions,  then,  I 
fancy,  the  experience  is  like  that  of  people 
who  have  the  inquisitive  habit  of  looking 
under  their  beds  nightly  for  a  burglar,  and 
at  last  find  him  there,  stowed  away  snugly, 
just  where  they  always  expected  him  to  be. 

143 


144 


l&     SCHOOL  OF 

Mooween,  on  his  part,  is  always  looking 
fij,  y  *j  "" ,  for  you,  when  once  he  has  learned  that  you 
Seor  nave  moved  into  his  woods.  But  not  from 
any  desire  to  see  you !  He  is  like  a  lazy 
man  looking  for  work,  and  hoping  devoutly 
that  he  may  not  find  it.  A  bear  has  very 
little  curiosity  —  less  than  any  other  of  the 
wood  folk.  He  loves  to  be  alone;  and  so, 
when  he  goes  hunting  for  you,  to  find  out 
just  where  you  are,  it  is  always  with  the 
creditable  desire  to  leave  you  in  as  large 

^  *       V^/W^V^it.    ^ 

/  A  1  ^-^5u  a  room  as  Possible,  while  he  himself  goes 
A  -  J*  «v-*^  quietly  away  into  deeper  solitudes.  As  this 
desire  of  his  is  much  stronger  than  your 
mere  idle  curiosity  to  see  something  new, 
you  rarely  see  Mooween  even  where  he  is 
most  at  home.  And  that  is  but  another  bit 
of  the  poetic  justice  which  you  stumble  upon 
everywhere  in  the  big  woods. 

It  is  more  and  more  evident,  I  think,  that 
\  Nature  adapts  her  gifts,  not  simply  to  the 
necessities,  but  more  largely  to  the  desires, 
Q£  ker  crea£Ures>     T he  force  and  influence  of 
that  intense  desire  —  more  intense  because 


THE  WOODS      0 

usually  each  animal  has  but  one  —  we  have 

>.,       ., 
uhen  You  Meet 


not   yet    learned    to    measure.      "Will    the 

J 


.         ,        .„.  .„  , 

unicorn  be  willing  to  serve  thee,  or  will  he 

abide  by  thy  crib  ?  "  would  seem  to  be  the 
secret  of  that  free  life  "  whose  home  is  the 
wilderness,"  if  one  were  quoting  Scripture 
to  prove  an  unprovable  theory,  as  is  some- 
times our  pleasant  and  unanswerable  theo- 
logical habit.  The  owl  has  a  silent  wing, 
not  simply  because  he  needs  it  —  for  his 
need  is  no  greater  than  that  of  the  hawk, 
who  has  no  silent  wing  —  but,  more  prob- 
ably, because  of  his  whole-hearted  desire  for 
silence  as  he  glides  through  the  silent  twi- 
light. And  so  with  the  panther's  foot;  and 
so  with  the  deer's  eye,  and  the  wolf's  nose, 
whose  one  idea  of  bliss  is  a  good  smell  ;  and 
so  with  every  other  strongly  marked  gift 
which  the  wild  things  have  won  from 
nature,  chiefly  by  wanting  it,  in  the  long 
years  of  their  development. 

This  theory  may  possibly  account  for 
some  of  Mooween's  peculiarities.  Nature, 
who  measures  her  gifts  according  to  the 


SCHOOL  OF 


146 

lt)hen  You  Afeef 
Sear 


desires  of  her  creatures,  remembers  his  love 

of    peace   and    solitude,    and    endows    him 

v  ..  __ 

accordingly.     He  cares  little  to  see  you  or 

anybody  else;  therefore  his  eyes  are  weak 
—  his  weakest  point,  in  fact.  He  desires 
ardently  to  avoid  your  society  and  all  soci- 
ety but  his  own;  therefore  his  nose  and  ears 
are  marvelously  alert  to  discover  your  com- 
ing. Often,  when  you  think  yourself  quite 
alone  in  the  woods,  Mooween  is  there.  The 
wind  has  told  your  story  to  his  nose;  the 
clatter  of  your  heedless  feet  long  ago  reached 
his  keen  ears,  and  he  vanishes  at  your 
approach,  leaving  you  to  your  noise  and 
inquisitiveness  and  the  other  things  you 
like.  His  gifts  of  concealment  are  so  much 
greater  than  your  powers  of  detection  that 
he  has  absolutely  no  thought  of  ever  see- 
ing you.  His  surprise,  therefore,  when  you 
do  meet  unexpectedly  is  correspondingly 
greater  than  yours. 

What  he  will  do  under  the  unusual  cir- 
cumstances depends  largely,  not  upon  him- 
self, but  upon  you.  With  one  exception,  his 


THE  WOODS      & 

feelings  are  probably  the  reverse  of  your  own. 
If  you  are  bold,  he  is  timid  as  a  rabbit; 
if  you  are  panic-stricken,  he  knows  exactly 
what  to  do;  if  you  are  fearful,  he  has  no 
fear;  if  you  are  inquisitive,  he  is  instantly 
shy;  and,  like  all  other  wild  creatures,  he 
has  an  almost  uncanny  way  of  understand- 
ing your  thought.  It  is  as  if,  in  that  intent, 
penetrating  gaze  of  his,  he  saw  your  soul 
turned  inside  out  for  his  inspection.  The 
only  exception  is  when  you  meet  him  with- 
out fear  or  curiosity,  with  the  desire  simply 
to  attend  to  your  own  affairs,  as  if  he  were 
a  stranger  and  an  equal.  That  rare  mental 
attitude  he  understands  perfectly  —  for  is 
it  not  his  own  ?  —  and  he  goes  his  way 
quietly,  as  if  he  had  not  seen  you. 

For  every  chance  meeting  Mooween 
seems  to  have  a  plan  of  action  ready,  which 
he  applies  without  a  question  or  an  instant's 
hesitation.  Make  an  unknown  sound  behind 
him  as  he  plods  along  the  shore,  and  he 
hurls  himself  headlong  into  the  cover  of  the 
bushes,  as  if  your  voice  had  touched  a  button 


147 


?/?  YouMeef 
a^Bear 


148 

t)hen  You  Meef 
Bear 


®     SCHOOL  OF 

that  released  a  coiled  spring  beneath  him. 
Afterwards  he  may  come  back  to  find  out 
what  frightened  him.  Sit  perfectly  still,  and 
he  rises  on  his  hind  legs  for  a  look  and  a 
long  sniff  to  find  out  who  you  are.  Jump 
at  him  with  a  yell  and  a  flourish  the  instant 
he  appears,  and  he  will  hurl  chips  and  dirt 
back  at  you  as  he  digs  his  toes  into  the  hill- 
side for  a  better  grip  and  scrambles  away 
whimpering  like  a  scared  puppy. 

Once  in  a  way,  as  you  steal  through  the 
autumn  woods  or  hurry  over  the  trail,  you 
will  hear  sudden  loud  rustlings  and  shakings 
on  the  hardwood  ridge  above  you,  as  if  a 
small  cyclone  were  perched  there  for  a  while, 
amusing  itself  among  the  leaves  before 
blowing  on.     Then,  if  you  steal  up 
toward  the  sound,  you  will  find  Moo- 
ween  standing  on   a   big   limb   of    a 
beech    tree,  grasping   the    narrowing 
trunk  with  his  powerful  forearms,  tugging 
and   pushing   mightily  to  shake   down  the 
ripe  beechnuts.     The  rattle  and  dash  of 
the  falling  fruit  is  such  music  to 


THE  WOODS      0 

Mooween's  ears  that  he  will  not  hear  the  rustle 
of  your  approach,  nor  the  twig  that  snaps 
under  your  careless  foot.  If  you  cry  aloud 
now,  under  the  hilarious  impression  that  you 
have  him  sure  at  last,  there  is  another  surprise 
awaiting  you.  And  that  suggests  a  bit  of 
advice,  which  is  most  pertinent :  don't  stand 
under  the  bear  when  you  cry  out.  If  he  is  a 
little  fellow,  he  will  shoot  up  the  tree,  faster 
than  ever  a  jumping  jack  went  up  his  stick, 
and  hide  in  a  cluster  of  leaves,  as  near  the 
top  as  he  can  get.  But  if  he  is  a  big  bear, 
he  will  tumble  down  on  you  before  you  know 
what  has  happened.  No  slow  climbing  for 
him;  he  just  lets  go  and  comes  down  by 
gravitation.  As  Uncle  Remus  says  —  who 
has  some  keen  knowledge  of  animal  ways 
under  his  story-telling  humor  — "  Brer  B'ar, 
he  scramble  'bout  half-way  down  de  bee 
tree,  en  den  he  turn  eve'ything  loose  en  hit 
de  groun'  kerbiff ' !  Look  like  't  wuz  nuff  ter 
jolt  de  life  out'n  'im." 

Somehow  it  never  does  jolt  the  life  out  of 
him,  notwithstanding  his  great  weight ;  nor 


149 


in  You  Meet 
sTBear 


>  \L      \7      ji>/      Jt 
When  You  Meef 


0     SCHOOL  OF 

does  it  interfere  in  any  way  with  his  speed 

of  action,  which  is  like  lightning,  the  instant 

*        £' 
&e&r  ne  touches  the  ground.     Like  the  coon,  who 

can  fall  from  an  incredible  distance  without 
hurting  himself,  Mooween  comes  down  per- 
fectly limp,  falling  on  himself  like  a  great 
cushion;  but  the  moment  he  strikes,  all  his 
muscles  seem  to  contract  at  once,  and  he 
bounds  off  like  a  rubber  ball  into  the  densest 
bit  of  cover  at  hand. 

Twice  have  I  seen  him  come  down  in  this 
way.  The  first  time  there  were  two  cubs, 
nearly  full-grown,  in  a  tree.  One  went  up  at 
our  shout;  the  other  came  down  with  such 
startling  suddenness  that  the  man  who  stood 
ready  with  his  rifle,  to  shoot  the  bear,  jumped 
for  his  life  to  get  out  of  the  way  ;  and  before 
he  had  blinked  the  astonishment  out  of  his 
eyes  Mooween  was  gone,  leaving  only  a  vio- 
lent nodding  of  the  ground  spruces  to  tell 
what  had  become  of  him. 

All  these  plans  of  ready  action  in  Moo- 
ween's  head,  for  the  rare  occasions  when  he 
meets  you  unexpectedly,  are  the  result  of 


THE  WOODS      ® 

careful  training  by  his  mother.  If  you 
should  ever  have  the  good  fortune  to  watch 
a  mother  bear  and  her  cubs  when  they  have 
no  idea  that  you  are  near  them,  you  will  note 
two  characteristic  things.  First,  when  they 
are  traveling  —  and  Mooween  is  the  most 
restless  tramp  in  all  the  woods  — you  will  see 
that  the  cubs  follow  the  mother  closely  and 
imitate  her  every  action  with  ludicrous  exact- 
ness,—  sniffing  where  she  sniffs,  jumping 
where  she  jumps,  rising  on  their  hind  legs, 
with  forearms  hanging  loosely  and  pointed 
noses  thrust  sharp  up  into  the  wind,  on  the 
instant  that  she  rises,  and  then  drawing 
silently  away  from  the  shore  into  the  shelter 
of  the  friendly  alders  when  some  subtle  warn- 
ing tells  the  mother's  nose  that  the  coast 
ahead  is  not  perfectly  clear.  So  they  learn 
to  sift  the  sounds  and  smells  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  to  govern  their  actions  accordingly. 
And  second,  when  they  are  playing  you  will 
see  that  the  mother  watches  the  cubs'  every 
action  as  keenly  as  they  watched  hers  an 
hour  ago.  She  will  sit  flat  on  her 


/?  YouMeef 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

haunches,  her  fore  paws  planted  between  her 

Ti)h  n  You  Meef  outstretcne^  nmd  legs>  ner  great  head  on  one 
side,  noting  every  detail  of  their  boxing  and 
wrestling  and  climbing,  as  if  she  had  showed 
them  once  how  it  ought  to  be  done  and  were 
watching  now  to  see  how  well  they  remem- 
bered their  lessons.  And  now  and  then  one 
or  the  other  of  the  cubs  receives  a  sound 
cuffing;  for  which  I  am  unable  to  account, 
except  on  the  theory  that  he  was  doing  some- 
thing contrary  to  his  plain  instructions. 

It  is  only  when  Mooween  meets  some  new 
object,  or  some  circumstance  entirely  outside 
of  his  training,  that  instinct  and  native  wit 
are  set  to  work;  and  then  you  see  for  the 
first  time  some  trace  of  hesitation  on  the 
part  of  this  self-confident  prowler  of  the  big 
woods.  Once  I  startled  him  on  the  shore, 
whither  he  had  come  to  get  the  fore  quarters 
of  a  deer  that  had  been  left  there.  He 
jumped  for  cover  at  the  first  alarm  without 
even  turning  his  head,  just  as  he  had  seen 
his  mother  do  a  score  of  times  when 
he  was  a  cub.  Then  he  stopped,  and 


THE  WOODS      0 

for   three    or  four   seconds   considered    the 

danger,  in  plain  sight  —  a  thing  I  have  never 

u       •     ,         w  At 

seen  any  other  bear  imitate.    He  wavered  for 

a  moment  more,  doubtful  whether  my  canoe 
were  swifter  than  he  and  more  dangerous. 
Then  satisfied  that,  at  least,  he  had  a  good 
chance,  he  jumped  back,  grabbed  the  deer, 
and  dragged  it  away  into  the  woods. 

Another  time  I  met  him  on  a  narrow  path 
where  he  could  not  pass  me,  and  where  he 
did  not  want  to  turn  back,  for  something 
ahead  was  calling  him  strongly.  That  short 
meeting  furnished  me  the  best  study  in  bear 
nature  and  bear  instinct  that  I  have  ever  been 
allowed  to  make.  And,  at  this  distance,  I 
have  small  desire  to  repeat  the  experience. 

It  was  on  the  Little  Sou'west  Mirimichi, 
a  very  wild  river,  in  the  heart  of  the  wilder- 
ness. Just  above  my  camp,  not  half  a  mile 
away,  was  a  salmon  pool  that,  so  far  as  I 
know,  had  never  been  fished.  One  bank  of 
the  river  was  an  almost  sheer  cliff,  against 
which  the  current  fretted  and  hissed  in  a 
strong  deep  rush  to  the  rapids  and  a  great 


SCHOOL  OF 


*54 

Uhen  You  Meef 
a  Sear 

£\ 

'    .'v^L 


silent  pool  far  below.  There  were  salmon 
under  the  cliff,  plenty  of  them,  balancing 
themselves  against  the  arrowy  run  of  the 
current;  but,  so  far  as  my  flies  were  con- 
cerned, they  might  as  well  have  been  in  the 
Yukon.  One  could  not  fish  from  the  oppo- 
site shore  —  there  was  no  room  for  a  back 
cast,  and  the  current  was  too  deep  and  swift 
for  wading  —  and  on  the  shore  where  the 
salmon  were  there  was  no  place  to  stand. 
If  I  had  had  a  couple  of  good  Indians,  I 
might  have  dropped  down  to  the  head  of  the 
swift  water  and  fished,  while  they  held  the 
canoe  with  poles  braced  on  the  bottom ;  but 
I  had  no  two  good  Indians,  and  the  one  I 
did  have  was  unwilling  to  take  the  risk.  So 
we  went  hungry,  almost  within  sight  and 
sound  of  the  plunge  of  heavy  fish,  fresh  run 
from  the  sea. 

One  day,  in  following  a  porcupine  to  see 
where  he  was  going,  I  found  a  narrow  path 
running  for  a  few  hundred  yards  along  the 
side  of  the  cliff,  just  over  where  the 
salmon  loved  to  lie,  and  not  more 


THE  WOODS      * 

than  thirty  feet  above  the  swift  rush  of  water. 

I  went  there  with  my  rod  and,  without  attempt-   > ,, 

,          j         n    •  when  You  Meef 

mg  to  cast,  dropped  my  fly  into  the  current 

and  paid  out  from  my  reel.  When  the  line 
straightened  I  raised  the  rod's  tip  and  set  my 
fly  dancing  and  skittering  across  the  surface 
to  an  eddy  behind  a  great  rock.  In  a  flash 
I  had  raised  and  struck  a  twenty-five  pound 
fish;  and  in  another  flash  he  had  gone 
straight  downstream  in  the  current,  where 
from  my  precarious  seat  I  could  not  control 
him.  Down  he  went,  leaping  wildly  high 
out  of  water,  in  a  glorious  rush,  till  all  my 
line  buzzed  out  of  the  reel,  down  to  the  very 
knot  at  the  bottom,  and  the  leader  snapped 
as  if  it  had  been  made  of  spider's  web. 

I  reeled  in  sadly,  debating  with  myself  the 
unanswerable  question  of  how  I  should  ever 
have  reached  down  thirty  feet  to  gaff  my 
salmon,  had  I  played  him  to  a  standstill. 
Then,  because  human  nature  is  weak,  I  put 
on  a  stronger,  double  leader  and  dropped 
another  fly  into  the  current.  I  might  not 
get  my  salmon ;  but  it  was  worth  the  price  of 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

,     the  leader  just  to  raise  him  from  the  deeps 

>»z      \7      M     JL  and  see  his  terrific  rush  downstream,  iump- 
UhenYou Meef  .  .  .  '  J 

Bear  mg>  JumPmg>  as  «  the  witch  of  kndor  were 

astride  of  his  tail  in  lieu  of  her  broomstick. 
A  lively  young  grilse  plunged  headlong  at 
my  fly  and,  thanks  to  my  strong  leader,  I 
played  him  out  in  the  current  and  led  him 
listlessly,  all  the  jump  and  fight  gone  out  of 
him,  to  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  There  was  no 
apparent  way  to  get  down ;  so,  taking  my  line 
in  hand,  I  began  to  lift  him  bodily  up.  He 
came  easily  enough  till  his  tail  cleared  the 
water;  then  the  wiggling,  jerky  strain  was 
too  much.  The  fly  pulled  out,  and  he  van- 
ished with  a  final  swirl  and  slap  of  his  broad 
tail  to  tell  me  how  big  he  was. 

Just  below  me  a  bowlder  lifted  its  head 
and  shoulders  out  of  the  swirling  current. 
With  the  canoe  line  I  might  easily  let  myself 
down  to  that  rock  and  make  sure  of  my  next 
fish.  Getting  back  would  be  harder;  but 
salmon  are  worth  some  trouble ;  so  I  left  my 
rod  and  started  back  to  camp.  It  was  late 
afternoon,  and  I  was  hurrying  along  the  path, 


THE  WOODS      9 

giving  chief  heed  to  my  feet  in  the  ticklish 
walking,  with  the  cliff  above  and  the  river 
below,  when  a  loud  Hoowuff ' !  brought  me  up 
with  a  shock.  There  at  a  turn  in  the  path, 
not  ten  yards  ahead,  stood  a  huge  bear,  call- 
ing unmistakable  halt,  and  blocking  me  in  as 
completely  as  if  the  mountain  had  toppled 
over  before  me. 

There  was  no  time  to  think;  the  shock 
and  scare  were  too  great.  I  just  gasped 
Hoowuff !  instinctively,  as  the  bear  had  shot 
it  out  of  his  deep  lungs  a  moment  before, 
and  stood  stock-still,  as  he  was  doing.  He 
was  startled  as  well  as  I.  That  was  the  only 
thing  that  I  was  sure  about. 

I  suppose  that  in  each  of  our  heads  at 
first  there  was  just  one  thought:  "  I  'm  in  a 
fix;  how  shall  I  get  out?"  And  in  his 
training  or  mine  there  was  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  suggest  an  immediate  answer.  He 
was  anxious,  evidently,  to  go  on.  Something, 
a  mate  perhaps,  must  be  calling  him  up  river  ; 
else  he  would  have  whirled  and  vanished  at 
the  first  alarm.  But  how  far  might  he  presume 


157 


YouMeef 
sTBear 


158 
TtJhen  You  Meef 


¥    SCHOOL  OF 

on  the  big  animal's  timidity,  who  stood 
before  him  blocking  the  way,  and  whom  he 
''Beo'r  had  stopped  with  his  Hoowuff !  before  he 
should  get  too  near?  That  was  his  ques- 
tion, plainly  enough.  There  was  no  snarl  or 
growl,  no  savageness  in  his  expression ;  only 
intense  wonder  and  questioning  in  the  look 
which  fastened  upon  my  face  and  seemed  to 
bore  its  way  through,  to  find  out  just  what  I 
was  thinking. 

I  met  his  eyes  squarely  with  mine  and 
held  them,  which  was  perhaps  the  most  sensi- 
ble thing  I  could  have  done ;  though  it  was 
all  unconscious  on  my  part.  In  the  brief 
moment  that  followed  I  did  a  lot  of  thinking. 
There  was  no  escape,  up  or  down;  I  must 
go  on  or  turn  back.  If  I  jumped  forward 
with  a  yell,  as  I  had  done  before  under  differ- 
ent circumstances,  would  he  not  rush  at  me 
savagely,  as  all  wild  creatures  do  when  cor- 
nered? No,  the  time  for  that  had  passed 
with  the  first  instant  of  our  meeting.  The 
bluff  would  now  be  too  apparent ;  it  must  be 
done  without  hesitation,  or  not  at  all.  If  I 


THE  WOODS 


turned  back,  he  would  follow  me  to  the  end 
of  the  ledge,  growing  bolder  as  he  came 
on  ;  and  beyond  that  it  was  dangerous 
walking,  where  he  had  all  the  advantage 
and  all  the  knowledge  of  his  ground. 
Besides,  it  was  late,  and  I  wanted  a  salmon 
for  my  supper. 

I  have  wondered  since  how  much  of  this 
hesitation  he  understood  ;  and  how  he  came 
to  the  conclusion,  which  he  certainly  reached, 
that  I  meant  him  no  harm,  but  only  wanted 
to  get  on  and  was  not  disposed  to  give  him 
the  path.  All  the  while  I  looked  at  him 
steadily,  until  his  eyes  began  to  lose  their 
intentness.  My  hand  slipped  back  and 
gripped  the  handle  of  my  hunting  knife. 
Some  slight  confidence  came  with  the 
motion  ;  though  I  would  certainly  have  gone 
over  the  cliff  and  taken  my  chances  in  the 
current,  rather  than  have  closed  with  him, 
with  all  his  enormous  strength,  in  that  nar- 
row  place.  Suddenly  his  eyes  wavered  from 
mine;  he  swung  his  head  to  look  i 
down  and  up;  and  I  knew  that  I 


159 


n  YouMeef 


i6o 

iMea  You  Meef 
Bear 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

had  won  the  first  move  —  and  the  path  also, 
if  I  could  keep  my  nerve. 

I  advanced  a  step  or  two  very  quietly,  still 
looking  at  him  steadily.  There  was  a  sug- 
gestion of  \vhite  teeth  under  his  wrinkled 
chops ;  but  he  turned  his  head  to  look  back 
over  the  way  he  had  come,  and  presently  he 
disappeared.  It  was  only  for  a  moment; 
then  his  nose  and  eyes  were  poked  cau- 
tiously by  the  corner  of  rock.  He  was  peek- 
ing to  see  if  I  were  still  there.  When  the 
nose  vanished  again  I  stole  forward  to  the 
turn  and  found  him  just  ahead,  looking  down 
the  cliff  to  see  if  there  were  any  other  way 
below. 

He  was  uneasy  now ;  a  low,  whining  growl 
came  floating  up  the  path.  Then  I  sat  down 
on  a  rock,  squarely  in  the  path,  and  for  the 
first  time  some  faint  suggestion  of  the  humor 
of  the  situation  gave  me  a  bit  of  consolation. 
I  began  to  talk  to  him,  not  humorously,  but  as 
if  he  were  a  Scotchman  and  open  only  to  argu- 
ment. "  You  're  in  a  fix,  Mooween,  a  terrible 
fix,"  I  kept  saying  to  him  softly ;  "  but  if  you 


THE  WOODS      » 

had  only  stayed  at  home  till  twilight,  as  a  bear 

ought  to  do,  we  should  be  happy  now,  both  >,,       .,       .,     , 
A7      ,  .     r'  When  You Meef 

of  us.     You  have  put  me  in  a  fix,  too,  you 

see ;  and  now  you  Ve  just  got  to  get  me  out 
of  it.  I  'm  not  going  back.  I  don't  know 
the  path  as  well  as  you  do.  Besides,  it  will 
be  dark  soon,  and  I  should  probably  break 
my  neck.  It 's  a  shame,  Moo  ween,  to  put 
any  gentleman  in  such  a  fix  as  I  am  in  this 
minute,  just  by  your  blundering  carelessness. 
Why  didn't  you  smell  me,  anyway,  as  any 
but  a  fool  bear  would  have  done,  and  take 
some  other  path  over  the  mountain  ?  Why 
don't  you  climb  that  spruce  now  and  get  out 
of  the  way  ?  " 

I  have  noticed  that  all  wild  animals  grow 
uneasy  at  the  sound  of  the  human  voice, 
speaking  however  quietly.  There  is  in  it 
something  deep,  unknown,  mysterious  be- 
yond all  their  powers  of  comprehension ;  and 
they  go  away  from  it  quickly  when  they  can. 
I  have  a  theory  also  that  all  animals,  wild 
and  domestic,  understand  more  of  our  men- 
tal attitude  than  we  give  them  credit  for ;  and 


SCHOOL  OF 


162 

Ti)hen  You  Meef 


the  theory  gains  rather  than  loses  strength 
whenever  I  think  of  Mooween  on  that  nar- 
row pass.  I  can  see  him  now,  turning, 
twisting  uneasily,  and  the  half-timid  look  in 
his  eyes  as  they  met  mine  furtively,  as  if 
ashamed;  and  again  the  low,  troubled  whine 
comes  floating  up  the  path  and  mingles  with 
the  rush  and  murmur  of  the  salmon  pool 
below. 

A  bear  hates  to  be  outdone  quite  as  much 
as  a  fox  does.  If  you  catch  him  in  a  trap, 
he  never  growls  nor  fights  nor  resists,  as 
lynx  and  otter  and  almost  all  other  wild 
creatures  do.  He  has  outwitted  you  and 
shown  his  superiority  so  often  that  he  is 
utterly  overwhelmed  and  crushed  when  you 
find  him,  at  last,  helpless  and  outdone.  He 
seems  to  forget  all  his  great  strength,  all 
his  frightful  power  of  teeth  and  claws.  He 
just  lays  his  head  down  between  his  paws, 
turns  his  eyes  aside,  and  refuses  to  look  at 
you  or  to  let  you  see  how  ashamed  he  is. 
That  is  what  you  are  chiefly  conscious  of, 
nine  times  out  of  ten,  when  you  find  a  bear 


THE  WOODS      0 

or  a  fox  held  fast  in  your  trap;  and  some- 
thing of  that  was  certainly  in  Mooween's 
look  and  actions  now,  as  I  sat  there  in  his 
path  enjoying  his  confusion. 

Near  him  a  spruce  tree  sprang  out  of  the 
rocks  and  reached  upward  to  a  ledge  far 
above.  Slowly  he  raised  himself  against  this, 
but  turned  to  look  at  me  again  sitting  quietly 
in  his  own  path  —  that  he  could  no  longer  con- 
sider his  —  and  smiling  at  his  discomfiture  as 
I  remember  how  ashamed  he  is  to  be  outdone. 
Then  an  electric  shock  seemed  to  hoist  him 
out  of  the  trail.  He  shot  up  the  tree  in  a 
succession  of  nervous,  jerky  jumps,  rising 
with  astonishing  speed  for  so  huge  a  creature, 
smashing  the  little  branches,  ripping  the  rough 
bark  with  his  great  claws,  sending  down  a 
clattering  shower  of  chips  and  dust  behind 
him,  till  he  reached  the  level  of  the  ledge  above 
and  sprang  out  upon  it ;  where  he  stopped  and 
looked  down  to  see  what  I  would  do  next.  And 
there  he  stayed,  his  great  head  hanging  over 
the  edge  of  the  rock,  looking  at  me  intently 
till  I  rose  and  went  quietly  down  the  trail. 


163 


in  You  Meet 
a^Bear 


It  was  morning  when  I  came  back  to  the 
salmon  pool.  Unlike  the  mossy  forest  floor, 
the  hard  rock  bore  no  signs  to  tell  me  — 
what  I  was  most  curious  to  know  —  whether 
he  came  down  the  tree  or  found  some  other 
way  over  the  mountain.  At  the  point  where 
I  had  stood  when  his  deep  Hoowuff !  first 
startled  me  I  left  a  big  salmon,  for  a  taste 
of  which  any  bear  will  go  far  out  of  his 
way.  Next  morning  it  was  gone;  and  so 
it  may  be  that  Mooween,  on  his  next  jour- 
ney, found  another  and  a  pleasanter  surprise 
awaiting  him  at  the  turn  of  the  trail. 


i65 


LOMETIMES,  at  night,  as  you  drift 
along  the  shore  in  your  canoe,  sifting 
the  night  sounds  and  smells  of  the  wilderness, 
when  all  harsher  cries  are  hushed  and  the 
silence  grows  tense  and  musical,  like  a  great 
stretched  chord  over  which  the  wind  is  thrum- 
ming low  suggestive  melodies,  a  sudden  rush 
and  flapping  in  the  grasses  beside  you  breaks 
noisily  into  the  gamut  of  half-heard  primary 
tones  and  rising,  vanishing  harmonics.  Then, 
as  you  listen,  and  before  the  silence  has  again 
stretched  the  chords  of  her  Eolian  harp  tight 
enough  for  the  wind's  fingers,  another  sound, 
a  cry,  comes  floating  down  from  the  air  — 
Quoskh?  quoskh-quoskh?  a  wild,  questioning 

call,  as  if  the  startled  night  were  asking  who 

167 


1 68 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


V     SCHOOL  OF 

you  are.  It  is  only  a  blue  heron,  wakened 
out  of  his  sleep  on  the  shore  by  your  noisy 
approach,  that  you  thought  was  still  as  the 
night  itself.  He  circles  over  your  head  for 
a  moment,  seeing  you  perfectly,  though  you 
catch  never  a  shadow  of  his  broad  wings; 
then  he  vanishes  into  the  vast,  dark  silence, 
crying  Quoskh?  quoskh?  as  he  goes.  And 
the  cry,  with  its  strange,  wild  interrogation 
vanishing  away  into  the  outer  darkness,  has 
given  him  his  most  fascinating  Indian  name, 
Quoskh  the  Night's  Question. 

To  many,  indeed,  even  to  some  Indians, 
he  has  no  other  name  and  no  definite  pres- 
ence. He  rarely  utters  the  cry  by  day  — 
his  voice  then  is  a  harsh  croak  —  and  you 
never  see  him  as  he  utters  it  out  of  the 
solemn  upper  darkness ;  so  that  there  is  often 
a  mystery  about  this  voice  of  the  night,  which 
one  never  thinks  of  associating  with  the 
quiet,  patient,  long-legged  fisherman  that  one 
may  see  any  summer  day  along  the  borders 
of  lonely  lake  or  stream.  A  score  of  times 
I  have  been  asked  by  old  campers,  "What 


THE  WOODS      ® 

is  that  ? "  as  a  sharp,   questioning   Quoskh- 

quoskh  ?   seemed    to  '  tumble  down  into  the    ^ 
,  ,_,      .  . .       Quoskh  Jfie 

sleeping  lake.     Yet  they  knew  the  great  blue   ^^f(een  Eyed 

heron  perfectly  —  or  thought  they  did. 

Quoskh  has  other  names,  however,  which 
describe  his  attributes  and  doings.  Some- 
times, when  fishing  alongshore  with  my 
Indian  at  the  paddle,  the  canoe  would  push 
its  nose  silently  around  a  point,  and  I  would 
see  the  heron's  heavy  slanting  flight,  already 
halfway  up  to  the  tree-tops,  long  before  our 
coming  had  been  suspected  by  the  watchful 
little  mother  sheldrake,  or  even  by  the  deer 
feeding  close  at  hand  among  the  lily  pads. 
Then  Simmo,  who  could  never  surprise  one 
of  the  great  birds,  however  silently  he  pad- 
dled, would  mutter  something  which  sounded 
like  Quoskh  K'sobeqh,  Quoskh  the  Keen 
Eyed.  At  other  times,  when  we  noticed  him 
spearing  frogs  with  his  long  bill,  Simmo, 
who  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  a  frog's 
leg  on  my  fry  pan,  would  speak  of  him  dis- 
dainfully in  his  own  musical  language  as 
Quoskh  the  Frog  Eater,  for  my 


i  yo 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

especial  benefit.  Again,  if  I  stopped  casting 
suddenly  at  the  deep  trout  pool  opposite  a 
grassy  shore,  to  follow  with  my  eyes  a  tall, 
gray-blue  shadow  on  stilts  moving  dimly 
alongshore  in  seven-league-boot  strides  for 
the  next  bog,  where  frogs  were  plenty,  Simmo 
would  point  with  his  paddle  and  say:  "See, 
OF  Fader  Longlegs  go  catch-um  more  frogs 
for  his  babies.  Funny  kin'  babies  dat,  eat-um 
bullfrog ;  don'  chu  tink  so  ?  " 

Of  all  his  names  —  and  there  were  many 
more  that  I  picked  up  from  watching  him  in 
a  summer's  outing — "Old  Father  Longlegs" 
seemed  always  the  most  appropriate.  There 
is  a  suggestion  of  hoary  antiquity  about  this 
solemn  wader  of  our  lakes  and  streams. 
Indeed,  of  all  birds  he  is  the  nearest  to  those 
ancient,  uncouth  monsters  which  Nature 
made  to  people  our  earth  in  its  uncouth 
infancy.  Other  herons  and  bitterns  have 
grown  smaller  and  more  graceful,  with  shorter 
legs  and  necks,  to  suit  our  diminishing  rivers 
and  our  changed  landscape.  Quoskh  is  also, 
undoubtedly,  much  smaller  than  he  once 


THE  WOODS      ® 

was;  but  still  his  legs  and  neck  are  dispro- 
portionately  long,  when  one  thinks  of   the    ^         ,,      „ 
waters   he  wades  and    the  nest   he   builds     ^^/Ceen  Eyed 

and  the  tracks  he  leaves  in  the  mud  are 
startlingly  like  those  fossilized  footprints  of 
giant  birds  that  one  finds  in  the  rocks  of  the 
Pliocene  era,  deep  under  the  earth's  surface, 
to  tell  what  sort  of  creatures  lived  in  the 
vast  solitudes  before  man  came  to  replenish 
the  earth  and  subdue  it. 

Closely  associated  with  this  suggestion  of 
antiquity  in  Quoskh's  demeanor  is  the  oppo- 
site suggestion  of  perpetual  youth  which  he 
carries  with  him.  Age  has  no  apparent  effect 
on  him  whatsoever.  He  is  as  old  and  young 
as  the  earth  itself  is ;  he  is  a  March  day,  with 
winter  and  spring  in  its  sunset  and  sunrise. 
Who  ever  saw  a  blue  heron  with  his  jewel 
eye  dimmed  or  his  natural  force  abated?  Who 
ever  caught  one  sleeping,  or  saw  him  totter- 
ing weakly  on  his  long  legs,  as  one  so  often 
sees  our  common  wild  birds  clinging  feebly 
to  a  branch  with  their  last  grip?  A  Cape 
Cod  sailor  once  told  me  that,  far  out  from 


SCHOOL  OF 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


land,  his  schooner  had  passed  a  blue  heron 
lying  dead  on  the  sea  with  outstretched  wings. 
That  is  the  only  heron  that  I  have  ever 
heard  of  who  was  found  without  all  his  wits 
about  him.  Possibly,  if  Quoskh  ever  dies, 
it  may  suggest  a  solution  to  the  question  of 
what  becomes  of  him.  With  his  last  strength 
he  may  fly  boldly  out  to  explore  that  great 
ocean  mystery,  along  the  borders  of  which 
his  ancestors  for  untold  centuries  lived  and 
moved,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  on 
their  endless,  unnecessary  migrations,  rest- 
less, unsatisfied,  wandering,  as  if  the  voice  of 
the  sea  were  calling  them  whither 
they  dared  not  follow. 


Just  behind  my  tent  on  the  big  lake,  one 
summer,  a  faint,  woodsy  little  trail  wandered 
away  into  the  woods,  with  endless  turnings 
and  twistings,  and  without  the  faintest 


F\ 


THE  WOODS      ® 

indication  anywhere,  till  you  reached  the  very 
end,  whither  it  intended  going.  This  little  ^  ,  ,  ** 
trail  was  always  full  of  interesting  surprises.  ^^Keen  Eyed 
Red  squirrels  peeked  down  at  you  over  the 
edge  of  a  limb,  chattering  volubly  and  get- 
ting into  endless  mischief  along  its  borders. 
Moose  birds  flitted  silently  over  it  on  their 
mysterious  errands.  Now  a  jumping,  smash- 
ing, crackling  rush  through  the  underbrush 
halts  you  suddenly,  with  quick  beating  heart, 
as  you  climb  over  one  of  the  many  windfalls 
across  your  path.  A  white  flag  followed  by 
another  little  one,  flashing,  rising,  sinking 
and  rising  again  over  the  fallen  timber,  tells 
you  that  a  doe  and  her  fawn  were  lying 
behind  the  windfall,  all  unconscious  of  your 
quiet  approach.  Again,  at  a  turn  of  the  trail, 
something  dark,  gray,  massive  looms  before 
you,  blocking  the  faint  path ;  and  as  you  stop 
short  and  shrink  behind  the  nearest  tree,  a 
huge  head  and  antlers  swing  toward  you,  with 
widespread  nostrils  and  keen,  dilating  eyes, 
and  ears  like  two  trumpets  pointing  straight 
at  your  head  —  a  bull  moose,  sh ! 


174 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


W    SCHOOL  OF 

For  a  long  two  minutes  he  stands  there 
motionless,  watching  the  new  creature  that 
he  has  never  seen  before ;  and  it  will  be  well 
for  you  to  keep  perfectly  quiet  and  let  him 
surrender  the  path  when  he  is  so  disposed. 
Motion  on  your  part  may  bring  him  nearer 
to  investigate ;  and  you  can  never  know  at 
what  slight  provocation  the  red  danger  light 
will  blaze  into  his  eyes.  At  last  he  moves 
away,  quietly  at  first,  turning  often  to  look 
and  to  make  trumpets  of  his  ears  at  you. 
Then  he  lays  his  great  antlers  back  on  his 
shoulders,  sticks  his  nose  far  up  ahead  of 
him,  and  with  long,  smooth  strides  lunges 
away  over  the  windfalls  and  is  gone. 

So  every  day  the  little  trail  had  some 
new  surprise  for  you,  —  owl,  or  hare,  or 
prickly  porcupine  rattling  his  quills  like  a 
quiver  of  arrows  and  proclaiming  his  Indian 
name,  Unk-wunk!  Unk-wunk  !  as  he  loaf ed 
along.     When  you  had  followed  far,  and 
were  sure  that  the  loitering  trail  had  cer- 
tainly lost  itself,  it  crept  at  last  under  a  dark 
hemlock ;   and  there,  through  an  oval  frame 


THE  WOODS      & 

of  rustling,  whispering  green,  was  the  loneli- 
est, loveliest  little  deer-haunted  beaver  pond  ^ 

i  111         ^      111-1  (juosKn  me 

in  the  world,  where  Quoskh  lived  with  his  ^^^Keen  Eyed 

mate  and  his  little  ones. 

The  first  time  I  came  down  the  trail 
and  peeked  through  the  oval  frame  of  bushes, 
I  saw  him ;  and  the  very  first  glimpse  made 
me  jump  at  the  thought  of  what  a  wonderful 
discovery  I  had  made,  namely,  that  little 
herons  play  with  dolls,  as  children  do.  But 
I  was  mistaken.  Quoskh  had  been  catching 
frogs  and  hiding  them,  one  by  one,  as  I  came 
along.  He  heard  me  before  I  knew  he  was 
there,  and  jumped  for  his  last  frog,  a  big  fat 
one,  with  which  he  slanted  up  heavily  on  broad 
vans — with  a  hump  on  his  back  and  a  crook 
in  his  neck  and  his  long  legs  trailing  below 
and  behind  —  towards  his  nest  in  the  hem- 
lock, beyond  the  beaver  pond.  When  I  saw 
him  plainly  he  was  just  crossing  the  oval 
frame  through  which  I  looked.  He  had 
gripped  the  frog  across  the  middle  in  his 
long  beak,  much  as  one  would  hold  it  with 
a  pair  of  blunt  shears,  swelling  it  out  at  either 


1 76 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


W     SCffOOL  OF 

side,  like  a  string  tied  tight  about  a  pillow. 
The  head  and  short  arms  were  forced  up  at 
one  side,  the  limp  legs  dangled  down  on  the 
other,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  stuffed 
rag  doll  that  Quoskh  was  carrying  home  for 
his  babies  to  play  with. 

Undoubtedly  they  liked  the  frog  much 
better ;  but  my  curious  thought  about  them, 
in  that  brief  romantic  instant,  gave  me  an 
interest  in  the  little  fellows  which  was  not 
satisfied  till  I  climbed  to  the  nest,  long  after- 
wards, and  saw  them,  and  how  they  lived. 
When  I  took  to  studying  Quoskh, 
so  as  to  know  him  more  intimately,  I 
found  a  fascinating  subject ;  not  simply 
because  of  his  queer  ways,  but  also 
because  of  his  extreme  wariness  and  the 
difficulties  I  met  in  catching  him  doing 
things.  Quoskh  K'sobeqh  was  the  name 
that  at  first  seemed  most  appropriate,  till 
I  had  learned  his  habits  and  how  best  to 
get  the  weather  of  him  —  which  happened 
only  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of 
a  whole  summer. 


Ft 


THE  WOODS      ® 

One  morning  I  went  early  to  the  beaver 
pond   and   sat  down  against  a  gray  stump    Q         ,,     „ 
on  the  shore,  with  berry  bushes  growing  to    ^JKeen  Eyed 

my  shoulders  all  about  me.  "  Now  I  shall 
keep  still  and  see  everything  that  comes,"  I 
thought,  "  and  nothing,  not  even  a  blue  jay, 
will  see  me." 

That  was  almost  true.  Little  birds,  that 
had  never  seen  a  man  in  the  woods  before, 
came  for  the  berries,  and  billed  them  off 
within  six  feet  of  my  face  before  they  noticed 
anything  unusual.  When  they  did  see  me 
they  would  turn  their  heads  so  as  to  look  at 
me,  first  with  one  eye,  then  with  the  other, 
and  shoot  up  at  last,  with  a  sharp  burr /  of 
their  tiny  wings,  to  a  branch  over  my  head. 
There  they  would  watch  me  keenly,  for  a 
wink  or  a  minute,  according  to  their  curi- 
osity, then  swoop  down  and  whirr  their  wings 
loudly  in  my  face,  so  as  to  make  me  move 
and  show  what  I  was. 

Across  a  little  arm  of  the  pond,  a  stone's 
throw  away,  a  fine  buck  came  to  the  water, 
put  his  muzzle  into  it,  then  began  to  fidget 


1 78 


Quoskh 
Keen  Bye  d 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

uneasily.  Some  vague,  subtle  flavor  of  me 
floated  across  and  made  him  uneasy,  though 
he  knew  not  what  I  was.  He  kept  tonguing 
his  nostrils,  as  a  cow  does,  so  as  to  moisten 
them  and  catch  the  scent  of  me  better. 
On  my  right,  and  nearer,  a  doe  was  feed- 
ing unconcernedly  among  the  lily  pads.  A 
mink  ran,  hopping  and  halting,  along  the 
shore  at  my  feet,  dodging  in  and  out  among 
roots  and  rocks.  Cheokhes  always  runs  that 
way.  He  knows  how  glistening  black  his 
coat  is,  how  shining  a  mark  he  makes  for 
owl  and  hawk  against  the  sandy  shore;  and 
so  he  never  runs  more  than  five  feet  without 
dodging  out  of  sight;  and  he  always  pre- 
fers the  roots  and  rocks  that  are  blackest  to 
travel  on. 

A  kingfisher  dropped  with  his  musical 
k 'plop!  into  the  shoal  of  minnows  that  were 
rippling  the  water  in  their  play,  just  in  front 
of  me.  Farther  out,  a  fishhawk  came  down 
heavily,  souse!  and  rose  with  a  big  chub. 
And  none  of  these  sharp-eyed  wood  folk  saw 
me  or  knew  that  they  were  watched.  Then 


THE  WOODS      * 

a  wide,  wavy,  blue  line,  like  a  great  Cupid's 
bow,  came  gliding  swiftly  along  the  opposite 
bank  of  green,  and  Quoskh  hove  into  sight 
for  his  morning's  fishing. 

Opposite  me,  just  where  the  buck  had 
stood,  he  folded  his  great  wings;  his  neck 
crooked  sharply;  his  long  legs,  which  had 
been  trailed  gracefully,  straight  out  behind 
him  in  his  swift  flight,  swung  under  him  like 
two  pendulums  as  he  landed  lightly  on  the 
muddy  shore.  He  knew  his  ground  perfectly ; 
knew  every  stream  and  frog-haunted  bay  in 
the  pond,  as  one  knows  his  own  village; 
yet  no  amount  of  familiarity  with  his  sur- 
roundings can1  ever  sing  lullaby  to  Quoskh 's 
watchfulness.  The  instant  he  landed  he 
drew  himself  up  straight,  standing  almost  as 
tall  as  a  man,  and  let  his  keen  glance  run 
along  every  shore  just  once.  His  head,  with 
its  bright  yellow  eye  and  long  yellow  beak 
glistening  in  the  morning  light,  veered  and 
swung  over  his  long  neck  like  a  gilded  ^ 
weather-vane  on  a  steeple.  As  the  vane 
swung  up  the  shore  toward  me  I  held  my 


^         ., 


ffie 
Eyed 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


¥    SCHOOL  Of 

breath,  so  as  to  be  perfectly  motionless, 
thinking  I  was  hidden  so  well  that  no  eye 
could  find  me  at  that  distance.  As  it  swung 
past  me  slowly  I  chuckled,  thinking  that 
Quoskh  was  deceived.  I  forgot  altogether 
that  a  bird  never  sees  straight  ahead.  When 
his  bill  had  moved  some  thirty  degrees  off 
my  nose,  just  enough  so  as  to  bring  his  left 
eye  to  bear,  it  stopped  swinging  instantly. 
He  had  seen  me  at  the  first  glance,  and 
knew  that  I  did  not  belong  there.  For  a 
long  moment,  while  his  keen  eye  seemed  to 
look  through  and  through  me,  he  never 
moved  a  muscle.  One  could  easily  have 
passed  over  him,  thinking  him  only  one  of 
the  gray,  wave-washed  roots  on  the  shore. 
Then  he  humped  himself  together,  in  that 
indescribably  awkward  way  that  all  herons 
have  at  the  beginning  of  their  flight,  slanted 
heavily  up  to  the  highest  tree  on  the  shore, 
and  stopped  for  a  longer  period  on  a  dead 
branch  to  look  back  at  me.  I  had  not  moved 
so  much  as  an  eyelid ;  nevertheless  he  saw  me 
too  plainly  to  trust  me.  Again  he  humped 


THE  WOODS      B 

himself,  rose  high  over  the  tree-tops,  and  bore 

away  in  strong,  even,  graceful  flight  for  a   ^         .  ,      „ 

lonelier  lake,  where  there  was  no  man  to    *^Keen  Eyed 

watch  or  bother  him. 

Far  from  disappointing  me,  this  keenness 
of  Quoskh  only  whetted  my  appetite  to  know 
more  about  him,  and  especially  to  watch 
him,  close  at  hand,  at  his  fishing.  Near  the 
head  of  the  little  bay,  where  frogs  were  plenty, 
I  built  a  screen  of  boughs  under  the  low 
thick  branches  of  a  spruce  tree,  and  went 
away  to  watch  other  wood  folk. 

Next  morning  he  did  not  come  back;  nor 
were  there  any  fresh  tracks  of  his  on  the 
shore.  This  was  my  first  intimation  that 
Quoskh  knows  well  the  rule  of  good  fisher- 
men, and  does  not  harry  a  pool  or  a  place 
too  frequently,  however  good  the  fishing. 
The  third  morning  he  came  back;  and  again  |( 
the  sixth  evening;  and  then  the  ninth  morn-  , 
ing,  alternating  with  great  regularity  as  long 
as  I  kept  tabs  on  him.  At  other  times  I 
would  stumble  upon  him,  far  afield,  fish- 
ing in  other  lakes  and  streams;  or  see  him 


Quoskh 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

winging  homeward,  high  over  the  woods,  from 
waters  far  beyond  my  ken ;  but  these  appear- 
ances were  too  irregular  to  count  in  a  theory. 
I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  he  fished  the 
near-by  waters  with  as  great  regularity  as  he 
fished  the  beaver  pond,  and  went  wider  afield 
only  when  he  wanted  a  bit  of  variety,  or 
bigger  frogs,  as  all  fishermen  do;  or  when  he 
had  poor  luck  in  satisfying  the  clamorous 
appetite  of  his  growing  brood. 

It  was  on  the  sixth  afternoon  that  I  had 
the  best  chance  of  studying  his  queer  ways 
of  fishing.  I  was  sitting  in  my  little  blind  at 
the  beaver  pond,  waiting  for  a  deer,  when 
Quoskh  came  striding  along  the  shore.  He 
would  swing  his  weather-vane  head  till  he 
saw  a  frog  ahead,  then  stalk  him  slowly, 
deliberately,  with  immense  caution;  as  if  he 
knew  as  well  as  I  how  watchful  the  frogs  are 
at  his  approach,  and  how  quickly  they  dive 
headlong  for  cover  at  the  first  glint  of  his 
stilt-like  legs.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  would 
glide,  standing  motionless  as  a  gray  root 
when  he  thought  his  game  was  watching 


THE  WOODS      0 

him;  then  on  again  more  cautiously,  bending 

far  forward  and  drawing  his  neck  back  to    ^ 

,      ,  ,         Quoskh  /fie 

the  angle  of  greatest  speed  and  power  for  a    ^^Keen Eyed 

blow.  A  quick  start,  a  thrust  like  lightning 
—  then  you  would  see  him  shake  his  frog 
savagely,  beat  it  upon  the  nearest  stone  or 
root,  glide  to  a  tuft  of  grass,  hide  his  catch 
cunningly,  and  go  on  unincumbered  for  the 
next  stalk,  his  weather-vane  swinging,  swing- 
ing in  the  ceaseless  search  for  frogs,  or  pos- 
sible enemies. 

If  the  swirl  of  a  fish  among  t;he  sedges 
caught  his  keen  eye,  he  would  change  his 
tactics,  letting  his  game  come  to  him  instead 
of  stalking  it,  as  he  did  with  the  frogs. 
Whatever  his  position  was,  both  feet  down 
or  one  foot  raised  for  a  stride,  when  the  fish 
appeared,  he  never  changed  it,  knowing  well 
that  motion  would  only  send  his  game  hur- 
riedly into  deeper  water.  He  would  stand, 
sometimes  for  a  half  hour,  on  one  leg,  letting 
his  head  sink  slowly  down  on  his  shoulders, 
his  neck  curled  back,  his  long  sharp  bill 
pointing  always  straight  at  the  quivering 


1 84 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

line  which  marked  the  playing  fish,  his  eyes 
half  closed  till  the  right  moment  came.  Then 
you  would  see  his  long  neck  shoot  down, 
hear  the  splash  and,  later,  the  whack  of  his 
catch  against  the  nearest  root,  to  kill  it ;  and 
watch  with  curious  feelings  of  sympathy  as 
he  hid  it  in  the  grass  and  covered  it  over, 
lest  Hawahak  should  see,  or  Cheokhes  smell 
it,  and  rob  him  while  he  fished. 

If  he  were  near  his  last  catch,  he  would 
stride  back  and  hide  the  two  together ;  if  not, 
he  covered  it  over  in  the  nearest  good  place 
and  went  on.  No  danger  of  his  ever  forget- 
ting, however  numerous  the  catch !  Whether 
he  counts  his  frogs  and  fish,  or  simply  remem- 
bers the  different  hiding  places,  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing. 

Sometimes,  when  I  surprised  him  on  a 
muddy  shore  and  he  flew  away  without 
taking  even  one  of  his  tidbits,  I  would  follow 
his  back  track  and  uncover  his  hiding  places 
to  see  what  he  had  caught.  Frogs,  fish, 
pollywogs,  mussels,  a  baby  muskrat,  —  they 
were  all  there,  each  hidden  cunningly  under 


THE  WOODS      * 

a  bit  of  dried  grass  and  mud.  And  once  I 
went  away  and  hid  on  the  opposite  shore  to 
see  if  he  would  come  back.  After  an  hour 
or  more  he  appeared,  looking  first  at  my 
tracks,  then  at  all  the  shore  with  greater 
keenness  than  usual;  then  he  went  straight 
to  three  different  hiding  places  that  I  had 
found,  and  two  more  that  I  had  not  seen, 
and  flew  away  to  his  nest,  a  fringe  of  frogs 
and  fish  hanging  at  either  side  of  his  long 
bill  as  he  went. 

He  had  arranged  them  on  the  ground  like 
the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  as  a  fox  does,  heads 
all  out  on  either  side,  and  one  leg  or  the 
tail  of  each  crossed  in  a  common  pile  in 
the  middle ;  so  that  he  could  bite  down  over 
the  crossed  members  and  carry  the  greatest 
number  of  little  frogs  and  fish  with  the  least 
likelihood  of  dropping  any  in  his  flight. 

The  mussels  which  he  found  were  invari- 
ably, I  think,  eaten  as  his  own  particular  tid- 
bits; for  I  never  saw  him  attempt  to  carry 
them  away,  though  once  I  found  two  or  three 
where  he  had  hidden  them.  Generally  he 


185 

Quoskh  ffie 
JKeenEyed 


i86 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

could  crack  their  shells  easily  by  blows  of 
his  powerful  beak,  or  by  whacking  them 
against  a  root ;  and  so  he  had  no  need  (and 
probably  no  knowledge)  of  the  trick,  which 
every  gull  knows,  of  mounting  up  to  a  height 
with  some  obstinate  hardshell  and  dropping 
it  on  a  rock  to  crack  it. 

If  Quoskh  were  fishing  for  his  own  din- 
ner, instead  of  for  his  hungry  nestlings,  he 
adopted  different  tactics.  For  them  he  was  a 
hunter,  sly,  silent,  crafty,  stalking  his  game  by 
approved  still-hunting  methods ;  for  himself 
he  was  the  true  fisherman,  quiet,  observant, 
endlessly  patient.  He  seemed  to  know  that 
for  himself  he  could  afford  to  take  his  time 
and  be  comfortable,  knowing  that  all  things, 
especially  fish,  come  to  him  who  waits  long 
enough ;  while  for  them  he  must  hurry,  else 
their  croakings  from  too  long  fasting  would 
surely  bring  hungry,  unwelcome  prowlers  to 
the  big  nest  in  the  hemlock. 

Once  I  saw  him  fishing  in  a  peculiar  way, 
which  reminded  me  instantly  of  the  chum- 
ming process  with  which  every  mackerel 


THE  WOODS      « 

fisherman  on  the  coast  is  familiar.  He 
caught  a  pollywog  for  bait,  with  which  he 
waded  to  a  deep,  cool  place  under  a  shady 
bank.  There  he  whacked  his  pollywog  into 
small  bits  and  tossed  them  into  the  water, 
where  the  chum  speedily  brought  a  shoal  of 
little  fish  to  feed.  Quoskh  meanwhile  stood 
in  the  shadow,  where  he  would  not  be  noticed, 
knee-deep  in  water,  his  head  drawn  down 
into  his  shoulders,  and  a  friendly  leafy  branch 
bending  over  him  to  screen  him  from  prying 
eyes.  As  a  fish  swam  up  to  his  chum  he 
would  spear  it  like  lightning ;  throw  his  head 
back  and  wriggle  it  head-first  down  his  long 
neck ;  then  settle  down  to  watch  for  the  next 
one.  And  there  he  stayed,  alternately  watch- 
ing and  feasting,  till  he  had  enough ;  when  he 
drew  his  head  farther  down  into  his  shoulders, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  went  fast  asleep  in  the 
cool  shadows,  —  a  perfect  picture  of  fishing 
indolence  and  satisfaction. 

When  I  went  to  the  nest  and  hid  myself 
in  the  underbrush  to  watch  day  after  day,  ;,,: 
I  learned  more  of  Quoskh's  fishing 


187 

Quoskh  ffie 
JteenEyecf 


1 88 


Quoskh 
Keenfyed 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

and  hunting.  The  nest  was  in  a  great  ever- 
green, in  a  gloomy  swamp, — a  villainous  place 
of  bogs  and  treacherous  footing,  with  here 
and  there  a  little  island  of  large  trees.  On 
one  of  these  islands  a  small  colony  of  herons 
were  nesting.  During  the  day  they  trailed 
far  afield,  scattering  widely,  each  pair  to  its 
own  particular  fishing  grounds;  but  when 
the  shadows  grew  long,  and  night  prowlers 
stirred  abroad,  the  herons  came  trailing  back 
again,  making  curious,  wavy,  graceful  lines 
athwart  the  sunset  glow,  to  croak  and  be 
sociable  together,  and  help  each 
other  watch  the  long  night  out. 
Quoskh  the  Watchful  —  I 
could  tell  my  great  bird's  mate 
by  sight  or  hearing  from  all 
others,  either  by  her  greater  size  or  a  pecu- 
liar double  croak  she  had  —  had  hidden  her 
nest  in  the  top  of  a  great  green  hemlock. 
Near  by,  in  the  high  crotch  of  a  dead  tree,  was 
another  nest,  which  she  had  built,  evidently, 
years  before  and  added  to  each  successive 
spring,  only  to  abandon  it  at  last  for  the 


THE  WOODS      * 

evergreen.     Both  birds  used  to  go  to  the  old       g 

nest  freely ;  and  I  have  wondered  since  if  it   Quoskh 

were  not  a  bit  of  great  shrewdness  on  their    toffee/?  Eyed 

part  to  leave  it  there  in  plain  sight,  where 

any  prowler  might  see  and  climb  to  it ;  while 

the  young  were  securely  hidden,  meanwhile, 

in  the  top  of  the  near-by  hemlock,  where  they 

could  see   without   being  seen.     Only  at  a 

distance   could    you    find   the    nest.     When 

under  the  hemlock,  the   mass  of   branches 

screened  it  perfectly,  and  your  attention  was 

wholly  taken  by  the  other  nest,  standing  out 

in  bold  relief  in  the  dead  tree-top. 

Such  wisdom,  if  wisdom  it  were  and  not 
chance,  is  gained  only  by  experience.  It 
took  at  least  one  brood  of  young  herons, 
sacrificed  to  the  appetite  of  lucivee  or 
fisher,  to  teach  Quoskh  the  advantage  of 
that  decoy  nest  to  tempt  hungry  prowlers 
upon  the  bare  tree  bole,  where  she  could 
have  a  clear  field  to  spear  them  with  her 
powerful  bill  and  beat  them  down  with  her 
great  wings  before  they  should  discover 
their  mistake. 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

By  watching  the  birds  through  my  glass 
as  they  came  to  the  young,  I  could  generally 
tell  what  kind  of  game  was  afoot  for  their 
following.  Once  a  long  snake  hung  from 
the  mother  bird's  bill;  once  it  was  a  bird 
of  some  kind ;  twice  she  brought  small  ani- 
mals, whose  species  I  could  not  make  out  in 
the  brief  moment  of  alighting  on  the  nest's 
edge,  —  all  these  besides  the  regular  fare  of 
fish  and  frogs,  of  which  I  took  no  account. 
And  then,  one  day  while  I  lay  in  my  hiding, 
I  saw  the  mother  heron  slide  swiftly  down 
from  the  nest,  make  a  sharp  wheel  over  the 
lake,  and  plunge  into  the  fringe  of  berry 
bushes  on  the  shore  after  some  animal  that 
her  keen  eyes  had  caught  moving.  There 
was  a  swift  rustling  in  the  bushes,  a  blow  of 
her  wing  to  head  off  a  runaway,  two  or  three 
lightning  thrusts  of  her  javelin  beak;  then 
she  rose  heavily,  taking  a  leveret  with  her; 
and  I  saw  her  pulling  it  to  pieces  awkwardly 
on  the  nest  to  feed  her  hungry  little  ones. 

It  was  partly  to  see  these  little  herons,  the 
thought  of  which  had  fascinated  me  ever 


THE  WOODS      ® 

since  I  had  seen  Quoskh  taking  home  what 

I  thought,  at  first  glance,  was  a  rag  doll  for   Qun   /.A 

them  to  play  with,  and  partly  to  find   out    ^JKeen  Eyed 

more  of  Quoskh's  hunting  habits  by  seeing 

what  he  brought  home,  that  led  me  at  last  to 

undertake  the  difficult  task  of  climbing  the 

huge  tree  to  the  nest.     One  day,  when  the 

mother  had  brought  home  some  unknown 

small  animal  —  a  mink,  I  thought — I  came 

suddenly  out  of  my  hiding  and  crossed  over 

to  the  nest.     It  had  always  fascinated  me. 

Under  it,  at  twilight,  I  had  heard  the  mother 

heron  croaking  softly  to  her  little  ones  —  a 

husky  lullaby,  but  sweet  enough  to  them  — 

and  then,  as  I  paddled  away,  I  would  see  the 

nest  dark  against  the  sunset,  with  Mother 

Quoskh    standing   over   it,   a    tall,   graceful 

silhouette    against    the    glory    of    twilight, 

keeping  sentinel  watch  over  her  little  ones. 

Now  I  would  solve  the  mystery  of  the  high 

nest  by  looking  into  it. 

The  mother,  alarmed  by  my  sudden  appear- 
ance,—  she  had  no  idea  that  she  had  been 
watched,  —  shot  silently  away,  hoping  I  would 


192 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

not  notice  her  home  through  the  dense  screen 
of  branches.  I  climbed  up  with  difficulty; 
but  not  till  I  was  within  ten  feet  could  I 
make  out  the  mass  of  sticks  above  me.  The 
surroundings  were  getting  filthy  and  evil- 
smelling  by  this  time;  for  Quoskh  teaches 
the  young  herons  to  keep  their  nest  perfectly 
clean  by  throwing  all  refuse  over  the  sides 
of  the  great  home.  A  dozen  times  I  had 
watched  the  mother  birds  of  the  colony  push 
their  little  ones  to  the  edge  of  the  nest  to 
teach  them  this  rule  of  cleanliness,  so  differ- 
ent from  most  other  birds. 

As  I  hesitated  about  pushing  through  the 
filth-laden  branches,  something  bright  on  the 
edge  of  the  nest  caught  my  attention.  It 
was  a  young  heron's  eye,  looking  down  at 
me  over  a  long  bill,  watching  my  approach 
with  a  keenness  that  was  but  thinly  dis- 
guised by  the  half-drawn  eyelids.  I  had  to 
go  round  the  tree  at  this  point  for  a  standing 
on  a  larger  branch ;  and  when  I  looked  up, 
there  was  another  eye  watching  down  over 
another  long  bill.  So,  however  I  turned, 


THE  WOODS      9 

they  watched  me  closely  getting  nearer  and 

nearer,  till  I  reached  up  my  hand  to  touch    ^         .  ,     „ 

«,,  i     Quoskh  ffie 

the    nest.      Ihen    there  was  a  harsh  croak.    *^Keen  Eyed 

Three  long  necks  reached  down  suddenly 
over  the  edge  of  the  nest  on  the  side  where  I 
was ;  three  long  bills  opened  wide  just  over  my 
head ;  and  three  young  herons  grew  suddenly 
seasick,  as  if  they  had  swallowed  ipecac. 

I  never  saw  the  inside  of  that  home.  At  the 
moment  I  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  get 
down  and  wash  in  the  lake ;  and  after  that,  so 
large  were  the  young  birds,  so  keen  and  power- 
ful the  beaks,  that  no  man  or  beast  might 
expect  to  look  over  the  edge  of  the  nest,  with 
hands  or  paws  engaged  in  holding  on,  and 
keep  his  eyes  for  a  single  instant.  It  is  more 
dangerous  to  climb  for  young  herons  than  for 
young  eagles.  A  heron  always  strikes  for  the 
eye,  and  his  blow  means  blindness,  or  death, 
unless  you  watch  like  a  cat  and  ward  it  off. 

When  I  saw  the  young  again  they 
were    taking  their 
first  lessons.     A 
dismal    croaking 


SCHOOL  OF 


194 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


in  the  tree-tops  attracted  me  and  I  came 
over  cautiously  to  see  what  my  herons  were 
doing.  The  young  were  standing  up  on  the 
big  nest,  stretching  necks  and  wings,  and 
croaking  hungrily;  while  the  mother  stood 
on  a  tree-top  some  distance  away,  showing 
them  food  and  telling  them  plainly,  in  heron 
language,  to  come  and  get  it.  They  tried  it 
after  much  coaxing  and  croaking;  but  their 
long,  awkward  toes  missed  their  hold  upon 
the  slender  branch  on  which  she  was  balan- 
cing delicately  —  just  as  she  expected  it  to 
happen.  As  they  fell,  flapping  lustily,  she 
shot  down  ahead  of  them  and  led  them  in  a 
long,  curving  slant  to  an  open  spot  on  the 
shore.  There  she  fed  them  with  the  morsels 
she  held  in  her  beak ;  brought  more  food  from 
a  tuft  of  grass  where  she  had  hidden  it,  near 
at  hand ;  praised  them  with  gurgling  croaks 
till  they  felt  some  confidence  on  their  awkward 
legs;  then  the  whole  family  started  up  the 
shore  on  their  first  frogging  expedition. 

It  was  intensely  interesting  for  a  man  who, 
as  a  small  boy,  had   often  gone   a-frogging 


Fi 


THE  WOODS      ® 

himself  —  to   catch  big   ones  for  a  woodsy 

corn  roast,  or  little  ones  for  pickerel  bait  —    ~         ,  ,      ~, 

..   .     Quoskh   ffte 
to  sit  now  on  a  bog  and  watch  the  little    *^^Keen  Eyed 

herons  try  their  luck.  Mother  Quoskh  went 
ahead  cautiously,  searching  the  lily  pads ;  the 
young  trailed  behind  her  awkwardly,  lifting 
their  feet  like  a  Shanghai  rooster  and  setting 
them  down  with  a  splash  to  scare  every  frog 
within  hearing,  exactly  where  the  mother's 
foot  had  rested  a  moment  before.  So  they 
went  on,  the  mother's  head  swinging  like  a 
weather-vane  to  look  far  ahead,  the  little 
ones  stretching  their  necks  so  as  to  peek  by 
her  on  either  side,  full  of  wonder  at  the  new 
world,  full  of  hunger  for  the  things  that  grew 
there,  till  a  startled  young  frog  said  K'tung! 
from  behind  a  lily  bud,  where  they  did  not 
see  him,  and  dove  headlong  into  the  mud, 
leaving  a  long,  crinkly,  brown  trail  to  tell 
exactly  how  far  he  had  gone. 

A  frog  is  like  an  ostrich.  When  he  sees 
nothing,  because  his  head  is  hidden,  he  thinks 
nothing  can  see  him.  At  the  sudden  alarm 
Mother  Quoskh  would  stretch  her  neck, 


196 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


&     SCHOOL  Of 

watching   the  frog's   flight;    then   turn   her 
head  so  that  her  long  bill  pointed  directly 
at  the  bump  on  the  smooth  muddy  bottom, 
which   marked   the   hiding   place    of    Chig- 
wooltz,  and  croak  softly  once.     At  the  sound 
one  of  the  young  herons  would  hurry  for- 
ward eagerly ;  follow  his  mother's  bill,  which 
remained  motionless,  pointing  all  the  while ; 
twist  his  head  till  he  saw  the  frog's  back  in 
the  mud,  and  then  lunge  at  it  like  lightning. 
Generally  he  got  his  frog,  and  through  your 
glass   you   would   see   the    unfortunate 
creature  wriggling  and  kicking 
his  way  into  Quoskh's  yellow 
beak.       If    the    lunge    missed, 
the  mother's  keen  eye  followed 
the    frog's   frantic    rush 
through  the  mud,  with  a  longer 
trail  this  time  behind  him,  till 
he  hid  again;    whereupon  she 
croaked  the  same  youngster  up  for  another 
try,   and  then    the  whole  family  moved 
^—  ^      jerkily  along,  like  a  row  of  boys  on  stilts, 
to  the  next  clump  of  lily  pads. 


THE  WOODS      9 

As  the  young  grew  older,  and  stronger  on 
their  legs,  I  noticed  the  rudiments,  at  least,    Qun   A-A    */> 
of  a  curious  habit  of  dancing,  which  seems    ^^^Keen  Eyed 

to  belong  to  most  of  our  long-legged  wading 
birds.  Sometimes,  sitting  quietly  in  my  canoe, 
I  would  see  the  young  birds  sail  down  in 
a  long  slant  to  the  shore.  Immediately  on 
alighting,  before  they  gave  any  thought  to 
frogs  or  fish  or  carnal  appetite,  they  would 
hop  up  and  down,  balancing,  swaying,  spread- 
ing their  wings,  and  hopping  again  round 
about  each  other,  as  if  bewitched.  A  few 
moments  of  this  crazy  performance,  and  then 
they  would  stalk  sedately  along  the  shore,  as 
if  ashamed  of  their  ungainly  levity ;  but  at 
any  moment  the  ecstasy  might  seize  them 
and  they  would  hop  again,  as  if  they  simply 
could  not  help  it.  This  occurred  generally 
towards  evening,  when  the  birds  had  fed 
full  and  were  ready  for  play  or  for  stretch- 
ing their  broad  wings  in  preparation  for 
the  long  autumn  flight. 

Watching  them  one  evening,  I  remembered 
suddenly  a  curious  scene  that  I  had  stumbled 


198 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

upon  when  a  boy.  I  had  seen  a  great  blue 
heron  sail  croaking,  croaking,  into  an  arm  of 
the  big  pond  where  I  was  catching  bullpouts, 
and  crept  down  through  dense  woods  to  find 
out  what  he  was  croaking  about.  Instead  of 
one,  I  found  eight  or  ten  of  the  great  birds 
on  an  open  shore,  hopping  ecstatically  through 
some  kind  of  a  crazy  dance.  A  twig  snapped 
as  I  crept  nearer,  and  they  scattered  in  instant 
flight.  It  was  September,  and  the  instinct 
to  flock  and  to  migrate  was  at  work  among 
them.  When  they  came  together  for  the 
first  time  some  dim  old  remembrance  of 
generations  long  gone  by  —  the  shreds  of  an 
ancient  instinct,  whose  meaning  we  can  only 
guess  at  —  had  set  them  to  dancing  wildly; 
though  I  doubted  at  the  time  whether  they 
understood  much  what  they  were  doing. 

Perhaps  I  was  wrong  in  this.  Watching 
the  young  birds  at  their  ungainly  hopping, 
the  impulse  to  dance  seemed  uncontrollable ; 
yet  they  were  immensely  dignified  about  it 
at  times;  and  again  they  appeared  to  get 
some  fun  out  of  it  —  as  much,  perhaps,  as 


THE  WOODS      * 

we  do  out  of  some  of  our  peculiar  dances,  of 

199 
which  a  visiting  Chinaman  once  asked  inno-    ^         ,,      ™ 

cently :  "  Why  don't  you  let  your  servants  do    *^Keen Eyed 

it  for  you  ?  " 

I  have  seen  little  green  herons  do  the  same 
thing  in  the  woods,  at  mating  time ;  and  once, 
in  the  Zoological  Gardens  at  Antwerp,  I  saw 
a  magnificent  hopping  performance  by  some 
giant  cranes  from  Africa.  Our  own  sand-hill 
and  whooping  cranes  are  notorious  dancers; 
and  undoubtedly  it  is  more  or  less  instinctive 
with  all  the  tribes  of  the  Herodiones,  from  the 
least  to  the  greatest.  But  what  the  instinct 
means  —  unless,  like  our  own  dancing,  it  is 
a  pure  bit  of  pleasure-making,  as  crows  play 
games  and  loons  swim  races  —  nobody  can 
tell. 

Before  the  young  were  fully  grown,  and 
while  yet  they  were  following  the  mother  to 
learn  the  ways  of  frogging  and  fishing,  a 
startling  thing  occurred,  which  made  me 


SCHOOL  OF 


200 


ever  afterwards  look  up  to  Quoskh  with 
honest  admiration.  I  was  still-fishing  in  the 
middle  of  the  big  lake,  one  late  afternoon, 
when  Quoskh  and  her  little  ones  sailed  over 
the  trees  from  the  beaver  pond  and  lit  on  a 
grassy  shore.  A  shallow  little  brook  stole 
into  the  lake  there,  and  Mother  Quoskh  left 
her  young  to  frog  for  themselves,  while  she 
went  fishing  up  the  brook  under  the  alders. 
I  was-  watching  the  young  herons  through 
my  glass  when  I  saw  a  sudden  rush  in  the 
tall  grass  near  them.  All  three  humped 
themselves,  heron  fashion,  on  the  instant. 
Two  got  away  safely;  the  other  had  barely 
spread  his  wings  when  a  black  animal  leaped 
out  of  the  grass  for  his  neck  and  pulled  him 
down  flapping  and  croaking  desperately. 
I  pulled  up  my  killick  on  the  instant  and 
paddled  over  to  see  what  was 
going  on,  and  what  the  creature 
was  that  had  leaped  out  of  the 
grass.  Before  my  pad- 
//7  die  had  swung  a  dozen 
f  '//'  strokes  I  saw  the  alders 


THE  WOODS      0 

by  the  brook  open  swiftly,  and  Mother  Quoskh 

sailed  out  and  drove  like  an  ar-row  straight  at    ^         .  ,      ~» 

the  struggling  wing  tips,  which  still  flapped 

spasmodically  above  the  grass.   Almost  before 

her  feet  had  dropped  to  a  solid  landing  she 

struck  two  fierce,  blinding,  downward  blows  of 

her  great  wings.     Her  neck  curved  back  and 

shot  straight  out,  driving  the  keen  six-inch 

bill  before  it,  quicker  than  ever  a  Roman  arm 

drove  its  javelin.     Above  the  lap-lap  of  my 

canoe  I  heard  a  savage  cry  of  pain ;  the  same 

black  animal  leaped  up  out  of  the  tangled 

grass,  snapping  for  the  neck ;  and  a  desperate 

battle  began,  with  short  gasping  croaks  and 

snarls   that  made   caution  unnecessary  as  I 

sped  over  to  see  who  the  robber  was,  and  how 

Quoskh  was  faring  in  the  good  fight. 

The  canoe  shot  up  behind  a  point,  where, 
looking  over  the  low  bank,  I  had  the  arena 
directly  under  my  eye.  The  animal  was  a 
fisher — black-cat  the  trappers  call  him — the 
most  savage  and  powerful  fighter  of  his  size 
in  the  whole  world,  I  think.  In  the  instant 
that  I  first  saw  him,  quicker  than  thought 


SCHOOL  OF 


202 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


he  had  hurled  himself  twice,  like  a  catapult, 
at  the  towering  bird's  breast.  Each  time  he 
was  met  by  a  lightning  blow  in  the  face  from 
Quoskh's  stiffened  wing.  His  teeth  ground 
the  big  quills  into  pulp ;  his  claws  tore  them 
into  shreds;  but  he  got  no  grip  in  the 
feathery  mass,  and  he  slipped,  clawing  and 
snarling,  into  the  grass,  only  to  spring  again 
like  a  flash.  Again  the  stiff  wing  blow ;  but 
this  time  his  jump  was  higher; 
one  claw  gripped  the  shoulder, 
tore  its  way  through  flying 
feathers  to  the  bone,  while  his 
weight  dragged  the  big  bird  down. 
Then  Quoskh  shortened  her  neck  in 
a  great  curve.  Like  a  snake  it  glided 
over  the  edge  of  her  own  wing  for  two 
short,  sharp  down-thrusts  of  the  deadly 
in  —  so  quick  that  my  eye  caught  only 
the  double  yellow  flash  of  it.  With  a  sharp 
screech  the  black-cat  leaped  away  and  whirled 
towards  me  blindly.  One  eye  was  gone ;  an 
angry  red  welt  showed  just  over  the  other, 
telling  how  narrowly  the  second  thrust  had 


1  javeli 


THE  WOODS      «3 

missed  its  mark.  —  Quoskh's  frame  seemed 
to  swell,  like  a  hero  whose  fight  is  won.          Quoskh    /fie 
A  shiver  ran  over   me  as  I  remembered    Hfc^/fee/?  Eyed 

how  nearly  I  had  once  come  myself  to  the 
black-cat's  condition,  and  from  the  same  keen 
weapon.  I  was  a  small  boy,  following  a  big 
good-natured  hunter  that  I  met  in  the  woods, 
from  pure  love  of  the  wilds  and  for  the  glory 
of  carrying  the  game  bag.  He  shot  a  great 
blue  heron,  which  fell  with  a  broken  wing 
into  soft  mud  and  water  grass.  Carelessly 
he  sent  me  to  fetch  it,  not  caring  to  wet 
his  own  feet.  As  I  ran  up,  the  heron  lay 
resting  quietly,  his  neck  drawn  back,  his  long 
keen  bill  pointing  always  straight  at  my  face. 
I  had  never  seen  so  big  a  bird  before,  and 
bent  over  him,  wondering  at  his  long  bill, 
admiring  his  intensely  bright  eye. 

I  did  not  know  then — what  I  have  since 
learned  well — that  you  can  always  tell  when 
the  rush  or  spring  or  blow  of  any  beast  or 
bird — or  of  any  man,  for  that  matter — will 
surely  come,  by  watching  the  eye  closely. 
There  is  a  fire  that  blazes  in  the  eye  before 


204 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


the  blow  comes,  before  ever  a  muscle  has 
stirred  to  do  the  brain's  quick  bidding.  As 
I  bent  over,  fascinated  by  the  keen,  bright 
look  of  the  wounded  bird,  and  reached  down 
my  hand,  there  was  a  flash  deep  in  the  eye, 
like  the  glint  of  sunshine  from  a  mirror;  and 
I  dodged  instinctively.  Well  for  me  that  I 
did  so.  Something  shot  by  my  face  like 
lightning,  opening  up  a  long  red  gash  across 
my  left  temple  from  eyebrow  to  ear.  As  I 
jumped  I  heard  a  careless  laugh  —  "  Look  out, 
Sonny,  he  may  bite  you  —  Gosh !  what  a 
close  call  I"  And  with  a  white,  scared  face, 
as  he  saw  the  scar,  he  dragged  me  away,  as  if 
there  had  been  a  bear  in  the  water  grass. 

The  black-cat  had  not  yet  received  punish- 
ment enough.  He  is  one  of  the  largest  of 
the  weasel  family,  and  has  a  double  measure 
of  the  weasel's  savageness  and  tenacity.  He 
darted  about  the  heron  in  a  quick,  nervous, 
jumping  circle,  looking  for  an  opening  behind ; 
while  Quoskh  lifted  her  great  torn  wings  as 
a  shield  and  turned  slowly  on  the  defensive, 
so  as  always  to  face  the  danger.  A  dozen 


"A  DOZEN   TIMES  THE   FISHER  JUMPED 
FILLING   THE   AIR   WITH    FEATHERS" 


times  the  fisher  Jumped,  filling  the  air  with 

feathers ;  a  dozen  times  the  stiffened  wings    ^         ,  ,      ,* 

6,  Quoskh  ffte 
struck   down    to   intercept    his   spring,   and   *^^Keen  Eyed 

every  blow  was  followed  by  a  swift  javelin 
thrust.  Then,  as  the  fisher  crouched  snarl- 
ing in  the  grass,  I  saw  Mother  Quoskh  take 
a  sudden  step  forward,  her  first  offensive 
move — just  as  I  had  seen  her  twenty  times 
at  the  finish  of  a  frog  stalk — and  her  bill 
shot  down  with  the  whole  power  of  her  long 
neck  behind  it.  There  was  a  harsh  screech 
of  pain;  then  the  fisher  wobbled  away  with 
blind,  uncertain  jumps  towards  the  shelter  of 
the  woods. 

By  this  time  Quoskh  had  the  fight  well 
in  hand.  A  fierce,  hot  anger  seemed  to 
flare  within  her,  as  her  enemy  staggered 
away,  burning  out  all  the  previous  cool,  cal- 
culating defense.  She  started  after  the  fisher, 
first  on  the  run,  then  with  heavy  wing  beats, 
till  she  headed  him  and  with  savage  blows 
of  wing  and  beak  drove  him  back,  seeing 
nothing,  guided  only  by  fear  and  instinct, 
towards  the  water.  For  five  minutes  more 


SCHOOL  OF 


208 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


she  chevied  him  hither  and  yon  through  the 
trampled  grass,  driving  him  from  water  to 
bush  and  back  again,  jabbing  him  at  every 
turn;  till  a  rustle  of  leaves  invited  him,  and 
he  dashed  blindly  into  thick  underbrush, 
where  her  broad  wings  could  not  follow. 
Then  with  marvelous  watchfulness  she  saw 
me  standing  near  in  my  canoe ;  and  without 
a  thought,  apparently,  for  the  young  heron 
lying  so  still  in  the  grass  close  beside  her, 
she  spread  her  torn  wings  and  flapped  away 
heavily  in  the  path  of  her  more  fortunate 
younglings. 

I  followed  the  fisher's  trail  into  the  woods 
and  found  him  curled  up  in  a  hollow  stump. 
He  made  slight  resistance  as  I  pulled 
him  out.     All  his  ferocity 
was    lulled    to    sleep    in    the 
vague,  dreamy  numbness 
which    Nature  always   sends 
to    her    stricken    creatures. 
He    suffered    nothing, 
though    he 
was  fearfully 


THE  WOODS      « 

wounded;    he  just    wanted   to  be  let  alone. 
Both  eyes  were  gone.     There  was  nothing 

for  me   to  do'  excePt    to 
finish   mercifully  what   little 


/ 


^ 

When  September  came,  and  family 
cares  were  over,  the  colony  beyond 
the  beaver  pond  scattered  widely, 
returning  each  one  to  the  shy,  wild, 
solitary  life  that  Quoskh  likes  best. 
Almost  anywhere,  in  the  loneliest 
places,  I  might  come  upon  a  solitary 
heron  stalking  frogs,  or  chumming 
little  fish,  or  treading  the  soft  mud 
expectantly,  like  a  clam  digger,  to  find 
where  the  mussels  were  hidden  by  means 
of  his  long  toes;  or  just  standing  still  to 
enjoy  the  sleepy  sunshine  till  the  late  after- 
noon came,  when  he  likes  best  to  go  abroad. 


2IO 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


W     SCSfOOL  OF 

They  slept  no  more  on  the  big  nest,  stand- 
ing like  sentinels  against  the  twilight  glow 
and  the  setting  moon;  but  each  one  picked 
out  a  good  spot  on  the  shore  and  slept  as 
best  he  could  on  one  leg,  waiting  for  the 
early  fishing.  It  was  astonishing  how  care- 
fully even  the  young  birds  picked  out  a  safe 
position.  By  day  they  would  stand  like 
statues  in  the  shade  of  a  bank  or  among  the 
tall  grasses,  where  they  were  almost  invisible 
by  reason  of  their  soft  colors,  and  wait  for  hours 
for  fish  and  frogs  to  come  to  them.  By  night 
each  one  picked  out  a  spot  on  the  clean  open 
shore,  off  a  point,  generally,  where  he 
5  could  see  up  and  down,  where  there 
was  no  grass  to  hide  an  enemy,  and 
where  the  bushes  were  far  enough  away 
so  that  he  could  hear  the  slight  rustle 
of  leaves  before  the  creature  that  made  it 
was  within  springing  distance.  And  there 
he  would  sleep  safe  through  the  long  night, 
unless  disturbed  by  my  canoe  or  by  some 
other  prowler.  Herons  see  almost  as  well 
by  night  as  by  day ;  so  I  could  never  get  near 


THE  WOODS      Of 

enough  to  surprise  them,  however  silently 

I    paddled.     I    would   hear   only  a   startled    ^         ,  ,     „ 

• .  J .     .  Quoskh  ffie 

rush  of  wings,  and  then  a  questioning  call    ^^Keen  Eyed 

as  they  sailed  over  me  before  winging  away 
to  quieter  beaches. 

If  I  were  jacking,  with  a  light  blazing 
brightly  before  me  in  my  canoe,  to  see  what 
night  folk  I  might  surprise  on  the  shore, 
Quoskh  was  the  only  one  for  whom  my  jack 
had  no  fascination.  Deer  and  moose,  foxes 
and  wild  ducks,  frogs  and  fish,  —  all  seemed 
equally  charmed  by  the  great  wonder  of  a 
light  shining  silently  out  of  the  vast  darkness. 
I  saw  them  all,  at  different  times,  and  glided 
almost  up  to  them  before  timidity  drove  them 
away  from  the  strange  bright  marvel.  But 
Quoskh  was  not  to  be  watched  in  that  way, 
nor  to  be  caught  by  any  such  trick.  I  would 
see  a  vague  form  on  the  far  edge  of  the  light's 
pathway ;  catch  the  bright  flash  of  either  eye 
as  he  swung  his  weather-vane  head ;  then  the 
vague  form  would  slide  into  the  upper  dark- 
ness. A  moment's  waiting;  then,  above  me 
and  behind,  where  the  light  did  not  dazzle 


SCHOOL  OF 


212 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


his  eyes,  I  would  hear  his  night  cry — with 
more  of  anger  than  of  questioning  in  it — 
and  as  I  turned  the  jack  upward  I  would 
catch  a  single  glimpse  of  his  broad  wings 
sailing  over  the  lake.  Nor  would  he  ever 
come  back,  like  the  fox  on  the  bank,  for  a 
second  look,  to  be  quite  sure  what  I  was. 

When  the  bright  moonlit  nights  came, 
there  was  uneasiness  in  Quoskh's  wild  breast. 
The  solitary  life  that  he  loves  best  claimed 
him  by  day ;  but  at  night  the  old  gregarious 
instinct  drew  him  again  to  his  fellows.  Once, 
when  drifting  over  the  beaver  pond  through 
the  delicate  witchery  of  the  moonlight,  I 
heard  five  or  six  of  the  great  birds  croaking 
excitedly  at  the  heronry,  which  they  had 
deserted  weeks  before.  The  lake,  and  espe- 
cially the  lonely  little  pond  at  the  end  of  the 
trail,  was  lovelier  than  ever  before ;  but  some- 
thing in  the  south  -was  calling  him  away.  I 
think  that  Quoskh  was  also  moonstruck,  as 
so  many  wild  creatures  are;  for,  instead  of 
sleeping  quietly  on  the  shore,  he  spent  his 
time  circling  aimlessly  over  the  lake  and 


Ft 


THE  WOODS      ® 

woods,   crying   his    name    aloud,  or    calling 

wildly  to  his  fellows.  ^         .  ,      „ 

A/     -j  •  u^     r  u.     j      u  r        ?  u    i      Quoskh  ffie 
At  midnight  or    the  day  before    I  broke    ^^Ke en  Eyed 

camp,  I  was  out  on  the  lake  for  a  last  paddle 
in  the  moonlight.     The  night  was  perfect, — 
clear,  cool,  intensely  still.     Not  a  ripple  broke 
the  great  burnished  surface  of  the    lake ;  a 
silver  pathway  stretched  away  and  away  over 
the  bow  of  my  gliding  canoe,  leading  me  on 
to  where  the  great  forest  stood,  silent,  awake, 
expectant,  and  flooded  through  all  its  dim, 
mysterious  arches  with  marvelous  light.    The 
wilderness  never  sleeps.     If  it  grow  silent,  it 
is  to  listen.     To-night  the  woods  were  tense 
as  a  waiting  fox,  watching  to  see  what 
new  thing  would  come  out  of  the  lake, 
what  strange  mystery  would  be  born  under 
their  own  soft  shadows. 

Quoskh  was  abroad  too,  bewitched  by  the 
moonlight.  I  heard  him  calling  and  paddled 
down.  He  knew  me  long  before  he  was  any- 
thing more  to  me  than  a  voice  of  the  night, 
and  swept  up  to  meet  me.  For  the  first  time 
after  darkness  fell  I  saw  him  — just  a  vague, 


214 


Quoskh 
Keen  Eyed 


gray  shadow  with  edges  touched  softly  with 
silver  light,  which  whirled  once  over  my 
canoe  and  looked  down  into  it.  Then  he 
vanished;  and  from  far  over  on  the  edge  of 
the  waiting  woods,  where  the  mystery  was 
deepest,  came  a  cry,  a  challenge,  a  riddle, 
the  night's  wild  question  which  no  man  has 
ever  yet  answered  —  Quoskh  ?  quoskh  ? 


215 


RUSTLING  in  the  brakes  just  out- 
side my  little  tent  roused  me  from  a 
light  slumber.  There  it  was  again  ! 
the  push  of  some  heavy  animal  trying  to' 
move  noiselessly  through  the  tangle  close 
at  hand  ;  while  from  the  old  lumber  camp 
in  the  midst  of  the  clearing  a  low  gnaw- 
ing sound  floated  up  through  the  still  night. 
I  sat  up  quickly  to  listen ;  but  at  the  slight 
movement  all  was  quiet  again.  The  night 
prowlers  had  heard  me  and  were  on  their 
guard. 

One  need  have  no  fear  of  things  that  come 
round  in  the  night.     They  are  much  shyer 

than  you  are,  and  can   see  you   better;   so 
217 


218 


9     SCHOOL  OJF 

that,  if  you  blunder  towards  them,  they  mis- 
take your  blindness  for  courage,  and  take  to 
their  heels  promptly.  As  I  stepped  out  there 
was  a  double  rush  in  some  bushes  behind  my 
tent,  and  by  the  light  of  a  half-moon  I  caught 
one  glimpse  of  a  bear  and  her  cub  jumping 
away  for  the  shelter  of  the  woods. 

The  gnawing  still  went  on  behind  the 
old  shanty  by  the  river.  "  Another  cub  !  "  I 
thought  —  for  I  was  new  to  the  big  woods  — 
and  stole  down  to  peek  by  the  corner  of  the 
camp,  in  whose  yard  I  had  pitched  my  tent, 
the  first  night  out  in  the  wilderness. 

There  was  an  old  molasses  hogshead  lying 
just  beyond,  its  mouth  looking  black  as  ink 
in  the  moonlight,  and  the  scratching-gnawing 
sounds  went  on  steadily  within  its  shadow. 
"  He  's  inside,"  I  thought  with  elation,  "scrap- 
ing off  the  crusted  sugar.  Now  to  catch 
him ! " 

I  stole  round  the  camp,  so  as  to  bring  the 
closed  end  of  the  hogshead  between  me  and 
the  prize,  crept  up  breathlessly,  and  with  a 
H  quick  jerk  hove  the  old  tub  up  on  end, 


THE  WOODS      ® 

trapping  the  creature  inside.     There  was  a 

2  I Q 

thump,  a  startled  scratching  and  rustling, 
a  violent  rocking  of  the  hogshead,  which  I 
tried  to  hold  down ;  then  all  was  silent  in 
the  trap.  "  I  Ve  got  him  !  "  I  thought,  for- 
getting all  about  the  old  she-bear,  and  shouted 
for  Simmo  to  bring  the  ax. 

We  drove  a  ring  of  stakes  close  about  the 
hogshead,  weighted  it  down  with  heavy  logs, 
and  turned  in  to  sleep.  In  the  morning, 
with  cooler  judgment,  we  decided  that  a 
bear  cub  was  too  troublesome  a  pet  to  keep 
in  a  tent ;  so  I  stood  by  with  a  rifle  while 
Simmo  hove  off  the  logs  and  cut  the  stakes, 
keeping  a  wary  eye  on  me,  meanwhile,  to  see 
how  far  he  might  trust  his  life  to  my  nerve. 
A  stake  fell ;  the  hogshead  toppled  over  by 
a  push  from  within  ;  Simmo  sprang  away 
with  a  yell ;  and  out  wobbled  a  big  porcu- 
pine, the  biggest  I  ever  saw,  and  tumbled 
away  straight  towards  my  tent.  After  him 
went  the  Indian,  making  sweeping  cuts  at 
the  stupid  thing  with  his  ax,  and  grunting 
his  derision  at  my  bear  cub. 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

Halfway  to  the  tent  Unk  Wunk  stumbled 
across  a  bit  of  pork  rind,  and  stopped  to  nose 
it  daintily.  I  caught  Simmo's  arm  and 
stayed  the  blow  that  would  have  made  an 
end  of  my  catch.  Then,  between  us,  Unk 
Wunk  sat  up  on  his  haunches,  took  the  pork 
in  his  fore  paws,  and  sucked  the  salt  out  of 
it,  as  if  he  had  never  a  concern  and  never  an 
enemy  in  the  wide  world:  A  half  hour  later 
he  loafed  into  my  tent,  where  I  sat  repair- 
ing a  favorite  salmon  fly  that  some  hungry 
sea-trout  had  torn  to  tatters,  and  drove  me 
unceremoniously  out  of  my  own  bailiwick 
in  his  search  for  more  salt. 

Such  a  philosopher,  whom  no  prison  can 
dispossess  of  his  peace  of  mind,  and  whom 
no  danger  can  deprive  of  his  simple  pleasures, 
deserves  more  consideration  than  the  natural- 
ists have  ever  given  him.  I  resolved  on  the 
spot  to  study  him  more  carefully.  As  if  to 
discourage  all  such  attempts  and  make  him- 
self a  target  for  my  rifle,  he  nearly  spoiled 
my  canoe  the  next  night  by  gnawing  a 
hole  through  the  bark  and  ribs  for  some 


THE  WOODS      H 

suggestion  of  salt  that  only  his  greedy  nose 

could  possibly  have  found.  1/nkWunk 

Once  I  found  him  on  the  trail,  some  dis- 
tance from  camp,  and,  having  nothing  better 
to  do,  I  attempted  to  drive  him  home.  My 
intention  was  to  share  hospitality ;  to  give 
him  a  bit  of  bacon,  and  then  study  him  as  I 
ate  my  own  dinner.  He  turned  at  the  first 
suggestion  of  being  driven,  came  straight  at 
my  legs,  and  by  a  vicious  slap  of  his  tail  left 
some  of  his  quills  in  me  before  I  could 
escape.  Then  I  drove  him  in  the  opposite 
direction,  whereupon  he  turned  and  bolted 
past  me  ;  and  when  I  arrived  at  camp  he 
was  busily  engaged  in  gnawing  the 
end  from  Simmo's  ax  handle. 

However  you  take  him,  Unk 
Wunk  is  one  of  the  mysteries. 
He  is  a  perpetual  question  scrawled 
across  the  forest  floor,  which  nobody 
pretends  to  answer;   a  problem  that  grows 
only  more  puzzling  as  you  study  to  solve  it. 

Of  all  the  wild  creatures  he  is  the  only  one 
that  has  no  fear  of  man,  and  that  never  learns, 


SCHOOL  OF 


222 


l/nk 
Tk/unk 


either  by  instinct  or  experience,  to  avoid 
man's  presence.  He  is  everywhere  in  the 
wilderness,  until  he  changes  what  he  would 
call  his  mind ;  and  then  he  is  nowhere,  and 
you  cannot  find  him.  He  delights  in  soli- 
tude, and  cares  not  for  his  own  kind ;  yet 
now  and  then  you  will  stumble  upon  a  whole 
convention  of  porcupines  at  the  base  of  some 
rocky  hill,  each  one  loafing  around,  rattling 
his  quills,  grunting  his  name  Unk  Wunk ! 
Unk  Wunk  !  and  doing  nothing  else  all  day 
long. 

You  meet  him  to-day,  and  he  is  as  timid 
as  a  rabbit ;  to-morrow  he  comes  boldly  into 
your  tent  and  drives  you  out,  if  you  happen 
to  be  caught  without  a  club  handy.  He 
never  has  anything  definite  to  do,  nor  any 
place  to  go  to ;  yet  stop  him  at  any  moment 
and  he  will  risk  his  life  to  go  just  a  foot 
farther.  Now  try  to  drive  or  lead  him 
another  foot  in  the  same  direction,  and  he 
will  bolt  back,  as  full  of  contrariness  as  two 
pigs  on  a  road,  and  let  himself  be  killed 
rather  than  go  where  he  was  heading  a 


THE  WOODS      ® 

moment  before.  He  is  perfectly  harmless 
to  every  creature;  yet  he  lies  still  and  kills 
the  savage  fisher  that  attacks  him,  or  even 
the  big  Canada  lynx,  that  no  other  creature 
in  the  woods  would  dare  to  tackle. 

Above  all  these  puzzling  contradictions  is 
the  prime  question  of  how  Nature  ever  pro- 
duced such  a  creature,  and  what  she  intended 
doing  with  him  ;  for  he  seems  to  have  no 
place  nor  use  in  the  natural  economy  of 
things.  Recently  the  Maine  legislature  has 
passed  a  bill  forbidding  the  shooting  of  por- 
cupines, on  the  curious  ground  that  he  is  the 
only  wild  animal  that  can  easily  be  caught 
and  killed  without  a  gun;  so  that  a  man 
lost  in  the  woods  need  not  starve  to  death. 
This  is  the  only  suggestion 
thus  far,  from  a  purely 
utilitarian  standpoint,  that 
Unk  Wunk  is  no  mistake, 
but  may  have  his  uses. 

Once,  to  test  the  law  and  to  provide  for 
possible  future  contingencies,  I  added  Unk 
Wunk  to  my  bill  of  fare  —  a  vile,  malodorous 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

suffix  that  might  delight  a  lover  of  strong 
cheese.  It  is  undoubtedly  a  good  law; 
but  I  cannot  now  imagine  any  one  being 
grateful  for  it,  unless  the  stern  alternative 
were  death  or  porcupine. 

The  prowlers  of  the  woods  would  eat  him 
gladly  enough,  but  that  they  are  sternly  for- 
bidden. They  cannot  even  touch  him  with- 
out suffering  the  consequences.  It  would 
seem  as  if  Nature,  when  she  made  this  block 
of  stupidity  in  a  world  of  wits,  provided  for 
him  tenderly,  as  she  would  for  a  half-witted 
or  idiot  child.  He  is  the  only  wild  creature 
for  whom  starvation  has  no  terrors.  All  the 
forest  is  his  storehouse.  Buds  and  tender 
shoots  delight  him  in  their  season ;  and 
when  the  cold  becomes  bitter  in  its  intensity 
and  the  snow  packs  deep,  and  all  other  crea- 
tures grow  gaunt  and  savage  in  their  hunger, 
Unk  Wunk  has  only  to  climb  the  nearest 
tree,  chisel  off  the  rough,  outer  shell  with  his 
powerful  teeth,  and  then  feed  full  on  the  soft 
inner  layer  of  bark,  which  satisfies  him  per- 
fectly and  leaves  him  as  fat  as  an  alderman. 


THE  WOODS      ® 

Of  hungry  beasts  Unk  Wunk  has  no  fear 
whatever.  Generally  they  let  him  severely 
alone,  knowing  that  to  touch  him  would  be 
more  foolish  than  to  mouth  a  sunfish  or  to 
bite  a  peter-grunter.  If,  driven  by  hunger 
in  the  killing  March  days,  they  approach  him 
savagely,  he  simply  rolls  up  and  lies  still, 
protected  by  an  armor  that  only  a  steel  glove 
might  safely  explore,  and  that  has  no  joint 
anywhere  visible  to  the  keenest  eye. 

Now  and  then  some  cunning  lynx  or 
weasel,  wise  from  experience  but  desperate 
with  hunger,  throws  himself  flat  on  the 
ground,  close  by  Unk  Wunk,  and  works  his 
nose  cautiously  under  the  terrible  bur, 
searching  for  the  neck  or  the  underside  of 
the  body,  where  there  are  no  quills.  One 
grip  of  the  powerful  jaws,  one  taste  of  blood 
in  the  famished  throat  —  and  that  is  the  end 
of  both  animals.  For  Unk  Wunk  has  a 
weapon  that  no  prowler  of  the  woods  ever 
calculates  upon.  His  broad,  heavy  tail  is 
armed  with  hundreds  of  barbs,  smaller  but 
more  deadly  than  those  on  his  back ;  and  he 


6     swings  this  weapon  with  the  vicious  sweep 
of  a  rattlesnake. 

Sometimes,  when  attacked,  Unk  Wunk 
covers  his  face  with  this  weapon.  More 
often  he  sticks  his  head  under  a  root  or  into 
a  hollow  log,  leaving  his  tail  out  ready  for 
action.  At  the  first  touch  of  his  enemy  the 
tail  snaps  right  and  left  quicker  than  thought, 
driving  head  and  sides  full  of  the  deadly 
quills,  from  which  there  is  no  escape ;  for 
every  effort,  every  rub  and  writhe  of  pain, 
only  drives  them  deeper  and  deeper,  till  they 
rest  in  heart  or  brain  and  finish  their  work. 

Mooween  the  bear  is  the  only  one  of  the 
wood  folk  who  has  learned  the  trick  of  attack- 
ing Unk  Wunk  without  injury  to  himself. 
If,  when  very  hungry,  he  finds  a  porcupine, 
he  never  attacks  him  directly,  —  he  knows 
too  well  the  deadly  sting  of  the  barbs  for 
that,  —  but  bothers  and  irritates  the  porcu- 
pine by  flipping  earth  at  him,  until  at  last 
he  rolls  all  his  quills  outward  and  lies  still. 
Then  Mooween,  with  immense  caution,  slides 
one  paw  under  him,  and  with  a  quick  flip 


'BOTHERS  AND   IRRITATES  THE   PORCUPINE 
BY   FLIPPING   EARTH   AT   HIM" 


hurls  him  against  the  nearest  tree,  again  and 

again,  till  all  the  life  is  knocked  out  of  him.      rr    ,  ~  .       * 
'     ,      r.    ,  TT  ,    „,     ,    .  ,        .„  i/nkWunk 

11  he  rind    Unk   Wunk  in  a  tree,  he  will 

sometimes  climb  after  him  and,  standing  as 
near  as  the  upper  limbs  allow,  will  push  and 
tug  mightily  to  shake  him  off.  That  is 
usually  a  vain  attempt ;  for  the  creature  that 
sleeps  sound  and  secure  through  a  gale  in 
the  tree-tops  has  no  concern  for  the  ponder- 
ous shakings  of  a  bear.  In  that  case  Moo- 
ween,  if  he  can  get  near  enough  without 
risking  a  fall  from  too  delicate  branches,  will 
tear  off  the  limb  on  which  Unk  Wunk  is 
sleeping  and  throw  it  to  the  ground.  That 
also  is  usually  a  vain  proceeding ;  for  before 
he  can  scramble  down  after  it,  Unk  Wunk  is 
already  up  another  tree  and  sleeping,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  on  another  branch. 

Other  prowlers,  with  less  strength  and 
cunning  than  Mooween,  fare  badly  when 
driven  by  famine  to  attack  this  useless  crea- 
ture of  the  woods,  for  whom  Nature  neverthe- 
less cares  so  tenderly.  Trappers  have  told 
me  that  in  the  late  winter,  when  hunger  is 


2  3o 


l/nk 


W     SCHOOL  Of 

sharpest,  they  sometimes  catch  a  wild-cat  or 
lynx  or  fisher  in  their  traps  with  his  mouth 
and  sides  full  of  porcupine  quills,  showing  to 
what  straits  he  had  been  driven  for  food. 
These  rare  trapped  animals  are  but  an  indica- 
tion of  many  a  silent  struggle  that  only  the 
trees  and  stars  are  witnesses  of;  and  the 
trapper's  deadfall,  with  its  quick,  sure  blow, 
is  only  a  merciful  ending  to  what  else  had 
been  a  long,  slow,  painful  trail,  ending  at 
last  under  a  hemlock  tip  with  the  snow  for 
a  covering. 

Last  summer,  in  a  little  glade  in  the 
wilderness,  I  found  two  skeletons,  one  of  a 
porcupine,  the  other  of  a  large  lynx,  lying 
side  by  side.  In  the  latter  three  quills  lay 
where  the  throat  had  been ;  the  shaft  of 
another  stood  firmly  out  of  an  empty  eye 
orbit ;  a  dozen  more  lay  about  in  such  a  way 
that  one  could  not  tell  by  what  path  they 
had  entered.  It  needed  no  great  help  of 
imagination  to  read  the  story  here  of  a  starv- 
ing lynx,  too  famished  to  remember  caution, 
and  of  a  dinner  that  cost  a  life. 


THE  WOODS      ® 

Once  also  I  saw  a  curious  bit  of  animal 

231 

education  in  connection  with   Unk  Wunk.    ,,    ,  ^  ,       r 
_  .  f/nkWunk 

Two  young  owls  had  begun  hunting,  under 

direction  of  the  mother  bird,  along  the  foot 
of  a  ridge  in  the  early  twilight.  From  my 
canoe  I  saw  one  of  the  young  birds  swoop 
downward  at  something  in  the  bushes  on 
the  shore.  An  instant  later  the  big  mother 
owl  followed  with  a  sharp,  angry  hoo-hoo-hoo- 
hoo !  of  warning.  The  youngster  dropped 
into  the  bushes ;  but  the  mother  fairly 
knocked  him  away  from  his  game  in  her 
fierce  rush,  and  led  him  away  silently  into 
the  woods.  I  went  over  on  the  instant,  and 
found  a  young  porcupine  in  the  bushes  where 
the  owl  had  swooped,  while  two  more  were 
eating  lily  stems  farther  along  the  shore. 

Evidently  Kookooskoos,  who  swoops  by 
instinct  at  everything  that  moves,  must  be 
taught  by  wiser  heads  the  wisdom  of  letting 
certain  things  severely  alone. 

That  he  needs  this  lesson  was  clearly 
shown  by  an  owl  that  my  friend  once  shot 
at  twilight.  There  was  a  porcupine  quill 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

imbedded  for  nearly  its  entire  length  in  his 
;  leg.  Two  more  were  slowly  working  their 
way  into  his  body;  and  the  shaft  of  another 
projected  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
Whether  he  were  a  young  owl  and  untaught, 
or  whether,  driven  by  hunger,  he  had  thrown 
counsel  to  the  winds  and  swooped  at  Unk 
Wunk,  will  never  be  known.  That  he  should 
attack  so  large  an  animal  as  the  porcupine 
would  seem  to  indicate  that,  like  the  lynx, 
hunger  had  probably  driven  him  beyond  all 
consideration  for  his  mother's  teaching. 

Unk  Wunk,  on  his  part,  knows  so  very 
little  that  it  may  fairly  be  doubted  whether 
he  ever  had  the  discipline  of  the  school  of 
the  woods.  Whether  he  rolls  himself  into  a 
chestnut  bur  by  instinct,  as  the  possum 
plays  dead,  or  whether  that  is  a  matter  of 
slow  learning  is  yet  to  be  discovered. 
Whether  his  dense  stupidity,  which  disarms 
his  enemies  and  brings  him  safe  out  of  a 
hundred  dangers  where  wits  would  fail,  is, 
like  the  possum's  blank  idiocy,  only  a  mask 
for  the  deepest  wisdom  ;  or  whether  he  is 


THE  WOODS      H 

quite  as  stupid  as  he  acts  and  looks  is  also 
a  question.  More  and  more  I  incline  to 
the  former  possibility.  He  has  learned 
unconsciously  the  strength  of  lying  still. 
A  thousand  generations  of  fat  and  healthy 
porcupines  have  taught  him  the  folly  of 
trouble  and  rush  and  worry  in  a  world  that 
somebody  else  has  planned,  and  for  which 
somebody  else  is  plainly  responsible.  So  he 
makes  no  effort  and  lives  in  profound  peace. 
But  this  also  leaves  you  with  a  question, 
which  may  take  you  overseas  to  explore 
Hindu  philosophy.  Indeed,  if  you  have  ^| 
one  question  when  you 
meet  Unk  Wunk  for  the 
first  time,  you  will  have 
twenty  after  you  have  4 
studied  him  for  a  season 
or  two.  His  paragraph 
in  the  woods'  jour-  > 
nal  begins  and  ends 
with  a  question 
mark,  and  a  dash  for 
what  is  left  unsaid. 

*vJT 


„  °7  ^  .       r 
1/nktJunk 


SCHOOL  Of 


l/nk 


The  only  indication  of  deliberate  plan  and 
effort  that  I  have  ever  noted  in  Unk  Wunk 
was  in  regard  to  teaching  two  young  ones 
the  simple  art  of  swimming,  —  which  porcu- 
pines, by  the  way,  rarely  use,  and  for  which 
there  seems  to  be  no  necessity.  I  was  drift- 
ing along  the  shore  in  my  canoe  when  I 
noticed  a  mother  porcupine  and  two  little 
ones,  a  prickly  pair  indeed,  on  a  log  that 
reached  out  into  the  lake.  She  had  brought 
them  there  to  make  her  task  of  weaning 
them  more  easy  by  giving  them  a  taste  of 
lily  buds.  When  they  had  gathered  and 
eaten  all  the  buds  and  stems  that  they  could 
reach,  she  deliberately  pushed  both  little 
ones  into  the  water.  When  they  attempted 
to  scramble  back  she  pushed  them  off  again, 
and  dropped  in  beside  them  and  led  them  to 
a  log  farther  down  the  shore,  where  there 
were  more  lily  pads. 

The  numerous  hollow  quills  floated  them 
high  in  the  water,  like  so  many  corks,  and 
they  paddled  off  with  less  effort  than  any 
other  young  animals  that  I  have  ever  seen  in 


THE  WOODS      H 

the  water.  But  whether  this  were  a  swim- 
ming lesson,  or  a  rude  direction  to  shift  and 
browse  for  themselves,  is  still  a  question. 
With  the  exception  of  one  solitary  old  genius, 
who  had  an  astonishing  way  of  amusing  him- 
self and  scaring  all  the  other  wood  folk,  this 
was  the  only  plain  bit  of  forethought 
and  sweet  reasonableness  that  I  have 
ever  found  in  a  porcupine. 


235 
1/nkWunk 


236 


NEW  sound,  a  purring  rustle  of  leaves,  ) 
stopped  me  instantly  as  I  climbed  the 
beech  ridge,  one  late  afternoon,  to  see 
what  wood  folk  I  might  surprise  feed- 
ing on  the  rich  mast.  Pr-r-r-r-ush,  pr-r-r-r- 
ush  !  a  curious  combination  of  the  rustling 
of  squirrels'  feet  and  the  soft,  crackling  purr 
of  an  eagle's  wings,  growing  nearer,  clearer 
every  instant.  I  slipped  quietly  behind  the 
nearest  tree  to  watch  and  listen. 

Something  was  coming  down  the  hill ;  but 
what?     It  was  not  an  animal  running.     No 

239 


240 


9     SCHOOL  Of 

animal    that  I   knew,    unless    he    had   gone 

<*yj  j  JC*  77     *  suddenly    crazy,   would   ever    make    such   a 

f//n  racket  to  tell  everybody  where  he  was.  It 
was  not  squirrels  playing,  nor  grouse  scratch- 
ing among  the  new-fallen  leaves.  Their 
alternate  rustlings  and  silences  are  unmis- 
takable. It  was  not  a  bear  shaking  down  the 
ripe  beechnuts  —  not  heavy  enough  for  that, 
yet  too  heavy  for  the  feet  of  any  prowler 
of  the  woods  to  make  on  his  stealthy  hunt- 
ing. Pr-r-r-r-ush,  swish!  thump!  Some- 
thing struck  the  stem  of  a  bush  heavily  and 
brought  down  a  rustling  shower  of 
leaves ;  then  out  from  under  the  low 
branches  rolled  something  that  I  had 
never  seen  before,  —  a  heavy  grayish  ball, 
as  big  as  a  half-bushel  basket,  so  covered 
over  with  leaves  that  one  could  not  tell  what 
was  inside.  It  was  as  if  some  one  had  covered 
a  big  kettle  with  glue  and  sent  it  rolling  down 
the  hill,  picking  up  dead  leaves  as  it  went. 
So  the  queer  thing  tumbled  past  my  feet, 
purring,  crackling,  growing  bigger  and  more 
ragged  every  moment  as  it  gathered  up 


THE  WOODS      H 

more  leaves,  till  it  reached  the  bottom  of  a 
sharp  pitch  and  lay  still. 

I  stole  after  it  cautiously.  Suddenly  it  Jtf  Lazy 
moved,  unrolled  itself.  Then  out  of  the 
ragged  mass  came  a  big  porcupine.  He 
shook  himself,  stretched,  wobbled  around  a 
moment,  as  if  his  long  roll  had  made  him 
dizzy;  then  he  meandered  aimlessly  along 
the  foot  of  the  ridge,  his  quills  stuck  full  of 
dead  leaves,  looking  big  and  strange  enough 
to  frighten  anything  that  might  meet  him  in 
the  woods. 

Here  was  a  new  trick,  a  new  problem  con- 
cerning one  of  the  stupidest  of  all  the  wood 
folk.  When  you  meet  a  porcupine  and 
bother  him,  he  usually  rolls  himself  into  a 
huge  pincushion  with  all  its  points  outward, 
covers  his  face  with  his  thorny  tail,  and  lies 
still,  knowing  well  that  you  cannot  touch 
him  anywhere  without  getting  the  worst 
of  it.  Now  had  he  been  bothered  by  some 
animal  and  rolled  himself  up  where  it  was  so 
steep  that  he  lost  his  balance,  and  so  tumbled 
unwillingly  down  the  long  hill ;  or,  with  his 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

stomach   full    of   sweet   beechnuts,   had    he 
242 

down  lazily  to  avoid  the  trouble   of 

or  is  Unk  Wunk  brighter  than  he 

looks  to  discover  the  joy  of  roller  coasting 
and  the  fun  of  feeling  dizzy  afterwards  ? 

There  was  nothing  on  the  hill  above,  no 
rustle  or  suggestion  of  any  hunting  animal 
to  answer  the  question;  so  I  followed  Unk 
Wunk  on  his  aimless  wanderings  along  the 
foot  of  the  ridge. 

A  slight  movement  far  ahead  caught  my 
eye,  and  I  saw  a  hare  gliding  and  dodging 
among  the  brown  ferns.  He  came  slowly  in 
our  direction,  hopping  and  halting  and  wig- 
gling his  nose  at  every  bush,  till  he  heard 
our  approach  and  rose  on  his  hind  legs  to 
listen.  He  gave  a  great  jump  as  Unk  Wunk 
hove  into  sight,  covered  all  over  with  the 
dead  leaves  that  his  barbed  quills  had  picked 
up  on  his  way  downhill,  and  lay  quiet  where 
he  thought  the  ferns  would  hide  him. 

The  procession  drew  nearer.  Moktaques, 
full  of  curiosity,  lifted  his  head  cautiously 
out  of  the  ferns  and  sat  up  straight  on  his 


THE  WOODS 


243 


haunches  again,  his  paws  crossed,  his  eyes 

shining  in  fear  and  curiosity  at  the  strange 

animal  rustling  along  and  taking  the  leaves 

with  him.     For  a  moment  wonder  held  him  fe//OW*& 

as  still  as  the  stump  beside  him ;   then  he 

bolted  into   the  bush   in  a  series   of   high, 

scared  jumps,   and   I   heard  him   scurrying 

crazily  in  a  half  circle  around  us. 

Unk  Wunk  gave  no  heed  to  the  interrup- 
tion, but  yew-yawed  hither  and  yon  after  his 
stupid   nose.     Like   every   other   porcupine 
that   I    have  followed,  he   seemed  to  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do,  and  nowhere  in  the 
wide  world  to  go.     He  loafed  along  lazily, 
too  full  to  eat  any  of  the  beechnuts  that  he 
nosed  daintily  out  of   the  leaves.      He 
tried  a  bit  of  bark  here  and  there,  only  to 
spit  it  out  again.     Once  he 
started  up  the  hill ;  but  it  was 
too  steep  for  a  lazy  fellow 
with  a  full  stomach.     Again 
he  tried  it;  but  it  was  not 
steep  enough  to  roll  down 
afterwards.       Suddenly    he 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

turned   and  came   back  to  see  who  it  was 

2  A.  A. 

r27  7  £*  71     '  ^a^  f°M°wed  him  about 

f/m  *  kept  very  quiet,  and  he  brushed  two  or 
three  times  past  my  legs,  eyeing  me  sleepily. 
Then  he  took  to  nosing  a  beechnut  from 
under  my  foot,  as  if  I  were  no  more  interest- 
ing than  Alexander  was  to  Diogenes. 

I  had  never  made  friends  with  a  porcupine, 
—  he  is  too  briery  a  fellow  for  intimacies,  — 
but  now  with  a  small  stick  I  began  to  search 
him  gently,  wondering  if,  under  all  that  armor 
of  spears  and  brambles,  I  might  not  find 
a  place  where  it  would  please  him  to  be 
scratched.     At  the  first  touch  he  rolled 
himself  together,  all  his  spears  sticking 
5?  ^  straight  out  on  every  side,  like  a  huge 
^' ,  chestnut  bur.    One  could  not  touch  him 
anywhere  without  being  pierced  by  a  dozen 
barbs.      Gradually,    however,    as    the    stick 
touched  him  gently  and  searched    out   the 
itching  spots  under  his  armor,  he  unrolled 
himself  and  put  his  nose  under  my  foot  again. 
He  did  not  want  the  beechnut ;  but  he  did 
want  to  nose  it  out.     Unk  Wunk  is  like  a  pig. 


THE  WOODS      ® 

He  has  very  few  things  to  do  besides  eating  ; 
but  when  he  does  start  to  go  anywhere  or  do 


anything  he  always  does  it.     Then  I  bent  >*7  Lazy 
down  to  touch  him  with  my  hand.  fe//OW*S 

That  was  a  mistake.  He  felt  the  differ- 
ence in  the  touch  instantly.  Also  he  smelled 
the  salt  in  my  hand,  for  a  taste  of  which  Unk 
Wunk  will  put  aside  all  his  laziness  and  walk 
a  mile,  if  need  be.  He  tried  to  grasp  the 
hand,  first  with  his  paws,  then  with  his  mouth  ; 
but  I  had  too  much  fear  of  his  great  cutting 
teeth  to  let  him  succeed.  Instead  I  touched 
him  behind  the  ears,  feeling  my  way  gingerly 
through  the  thick  tangle  of  spines,  testing 
them  cautiously  to  see  how  easily  they  would 
pull  out. 

The  quills  were  very  loosely  set  in,  and 
every  arrow-headed  barb  was  as  sharp  as  a 
needle.  Anything  that  pressed  against  them 
roughly  would  surely  be  pierced  ;  the  spines 
would  pull  out  of  the  skin,  and  work  their 
way  rapidly  into  the  unfortunate  hand  or 
paw  or  nose  that  touched  them.  Each  spine 
was  like  a  South  Sea  Islander's  sword,  set 


246 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

for  half  its  length  with  shark's  teeth.     Once 

*57  /  i//5»>X0w£  *n  ^e  ^es^  **  would  work  its  own  way, 
r~^ 'Fu/1  un^ess  pulled  out  with  a  firm  hand  spite  of 
pain  and  terrible  laceration.  No  wonder 
Unk  Wunk  has  no  fear  or  anxiety  when  he 
rolls  himself  into  a  ball,  protected  at  every 
point  by  such  terrible  weapons. 

The    hand    moved   very  cautiously  as  it 
went  down  his  side,  within   reach  of    Unk 
Wunk's    one    swift    weapon.       There    were 
thousands  of  the  spines,  rough   as  a  saw's 
edge,   crossing   each    other   in   every  direc- 
tion, yet  with  every  point  outward.     Unk 
Wunk  was  irritated,  probably,  because  he 
could  not  have  the  salt  he  wanted.     As 
the  hand  came  within  range,  his  tail 
snapped  back  like  lightning.    I  was 
watching  for  the  blow,  but  was  not 
half  quick  enough.     At  the  rustling 
snap,  like  the  voice  of  a  steel  trap,  I  jerked 
my  hand  away.    Two  of  his  tail  spines  came 
with  it ;  and  a  dozen  more  were  in  my  coat 
sleeve.     I  jumped  away  as  he  turned,  and  so 
escaped  the  quick  double  swing  of  his  tail 


THE  WOODS      *3 

at  my  legs.  Then  he  rolled  into  a  chestnut 
bur  again,  and  proclaimed  mockingly  at 
every  point :  "  Touch  me  if  you  dare  !  " 

I  pulled  the  two  quills  with  sharp  jerks 
out  of  my  hand,  pushed  all  the  others  through 
my  coat  sleeve,  and  turned  to  Unk  Wunk 
again,  sucking  my  wounded  hand,  which 
pained  me  intensely.  "  All  your  own  fault," 
I  kept  telling  myself,  to  keep  from  whack- 
ing him  across  the  nose,  his  one  vulnerable 
point,  with  my  stick. 

Unk  Wunk,  on  his  part,  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  the  incident.  He  unrolled  himself 
slowly,  and  loafed  along  the  foot  of  the  ridge, 
his  quills  spreading  and  rustling  as  he  went, 
as  if  there  were  not  such  a  thing  as  an  enemy 
or  an  inquisitive  man  in  all  the  woods. 

He  had  an  idea  in  his  head  by  this  time, 
and  was  looking  for  something.  As  I  fol- 
lowed close  behind  him,  he  would  raise  him- 
self against  a  small  tree,  survey  it  solemnly 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  go  on  unsatisfied. 
A  breeze  had  come  down  from  the  mountain 
and  was  swaying  all  the  tree-tops  above  him. 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 


g     He  would  look   up  steadily  at  the  tossing 
*57  /  JC^y/     •  ^ranc^es'  and  t^1611  hurry  on  to  survey  the 

' 


Fun  re    ne    met'  w^h  Paws  raised 

against  the  trunk  and    dull  eyes   following 
the  motion  overhead. 

At  last  he  found  what  he  wanted,  two  tall 
saplings  growing  close  together  and  rubbing 
each  other  as  the  wind  swayed  them.  He 
climbed  one  of  these  clumsily,  higher  and 
higher,  till  the  slender  top  bent  with  his 
weight  towards  the  other.  Then  he  reached 
out  to  grasp  the  second  top  with  his  fore 
paws,  hooked  his  hind  claws  firmly  into  the 
first,  and  lay  there  binding  the  tree-tops 
together,  while  the  wind  rose  and  began  to 
rock  him  in  his  strange  cradle. 

Wider  and  wilder  he  swung,  now  stretched 
out  thin,  like  a  rubber  string,  his  quills  lying 
hard  and  flat  against  his  sides  as  the  tree- 
tops  separated  in  the  wind  ;  now 
jammed  up  against  himself  as  they 
came  together  again,  pressing  him 
into  a  flat  ring  with  spines  stick- 
ing  straight  out,   like   a 


THE  WOODS      9 

chestnut  bur  that  has  been   stepped   upon. 
And  there  he  swayed  for  a  full  hour,  till  it 


grew  too  dark  to  see  him,  stretching,  con-  .x/  J^&zy  ^-fi 
tracting,  stretching,  contracting,  as  if  he  were  F&flo\v'>& 
an  accordion  and  the  wind  were  playing  him.     £fe< 
His  only  note,  meanwhile,  was  an  occasional 
squealing  grunt  of   satisfaction  after   some 
particularly  good  stretch,  or  when  the  motion 
changed  and  both  trees  rocked  together  in 
a  wide,  wild,  exhilarating  swing.     Now  and 
then  the  note  was  answered,  farther  down 
the   ridge,  by  another  porcupine  going  to 
sleep  in  his  lofty  cradle.     A  storm  was  com- 
ing ;  and    Unk    Wunk,   who  is  one   of  the 
wood's  best  barometers,  was  crying  it  aloud 
where  all  might  hear. 

So  my  question  was  answered  unexpect- 
edly. Unk  Wunk  was  out  for  fun  that 
afternoon,  and  had  rolled  down  the  hill  for 
the  joy  of  the  swift  motion  and  the  dizzy 
feeling  afterwards,  as  other  wood  folk  do. 
I  have  watched  young  foxes,  whose  den  was 
on  a  steep  hillside,  rolling  down  one  after  the 
other,  and  sometimes  varying  the  programme 


by  having  one  cub  roll  as  fast  as  he  could, 

^27  /  JC*  71  wnile  another  capered  alongside,  snapping 

-/r^,  p  -^  and  worrying  him  in  his  brain-muddling 
tumble. 

That  is  all  very  well  for  foxes.  One 
expects  to  find  such  an  idea  in  wise  little 
heads.  But  who  taught  Unk  Wunk  to  roll 
downhill  and  stick  his  spines  full  of  dry  leaves 
to  scare  the  wood  folk  ?  And  when  did  he 
learn  to  use  the  tree-tops  for  his  swing  and 
the  wind  for  his  motive  power  ? 

Perhaps  —  since  most  of  what  the  wood 
folk  know  is  a  matter  of  learning,  not  of 
instinct  —  his  mother  teaches  him  some 
things  that  we  have  never  yet  seen.  If  so, 
Unk  Wunk  has  more  in  his  sleepy,  stupid 
head  than  we  have  given  him  credit  for,  and 
there  is  a  very  interesting  lesson  awaiting 
him  who  shall  first  find  and  enter  the  porcu- 
pine school. 


MQUENAWJS  the  Mighty  is  v^fM 
lord  of  the  woodlands.  None  '$£§5 
other  among  the  wood  folk  is 
half  so  great  as  he ;  none  has  senses  so  keen 
to  detect  a  danger,  nor  powers  so  terrible 
to  defend  himself  against  it.  So  he  fears 
nothing,  moving  through  the  big  woods  like 
a  master;  and  when  you  see  him  for  the 
first  time  in  the  wilderness  pushing  his 
stately,  silent  way  among  the  giant  trees,  or 
plunging  like  a  great  engine  through  under- 
brush and  over  windfalls,  his  nose  up  to  try 
the  wind,  his  broad  antlers  far  back  on  his 

253 


mighty  shoulders,  while  the  dead  tree  that 
opposes  him  cracks  and  crashes  down  before 
his  rush,  and  the  alders  beat  a  rattling,  snap- 
ping tattoo  on  his  branching  horns,  —  when 
you  see  him  thus,  something  within  you  rises 
up,  like  a  soldier  at  salute,  and  says :  "  Milord 
the  Moose  !  "  And  though  the  rifle  is  in  your 
hand,  its  deadly  muzzle  never  rises  from 
the  trail. 

That  great  head  with  its  massive  crown 
is  too  big  for  any  house.  Hung  stupidly  on 
a  wall,  in  a  room  full  of  bric-a-brac,  as  you 
usually  see  it,  with  its  shriveled  ears  that 
were  once  living  trumpets,  its  bulging  eyes 
that  were  once  so  small  and  keen,  and  its 
huge  muzzle  stretched  out  of  all  proportion,  it 
is  but  misplaced,  misshapen  ugliness.  It  has 
no  more,  and  scarcely  any  higher,  signifi- 
cance than  a  scalp  on  the  pole  of  a  savage's 
wigwam.  Only  in  the  wilderness,  with  the 
irresistible  push  of  his  twelve-hundred  pound, 
force-packed  body  behind  it,  the  crackling 
underbrush  beneath,  and  the  lofty  spruce 
aisles  towering  overhead,  can  it  give  the 


tingling  impression  of  magnificent  power 
which  belongs  to  Umquenawis  the  Mighty 
in  his  native  wilds.  There  only  is  his 
head  at  home ;  and  only  as  you  see  it  there, 
whether  looking  out  in  quiet  majesty  from 
a  lonely  point  over  a  silent  lake,  or  leading 
him  in  his  terrific  rush  through  the  startled 
forest,  will  your  heart  ever  jump  and  your 
nerves  tingle  in  that  swift  thrill  which  stirs 
the  sluggish  blood  to  your  very  finger  tips, 
and  sends  you  quietly  back  to  camp  with 
your  soul  at  peace  —  well  satisfied  to  leave 
Umquenawis  where  he  is,  rather  than  pack 
him  home  to  your  admiring  friends  in  a 
freight  car. 

Though  Umquenawis  be  lord  of  the  wil- 
derness, there  are  two  things,  and  two  things 
only,  which  he  sometimes  fears :  the  smell  of 
man,  and  the  spiteful  crack  of  a  rifle.  For 
Milord  the  Moose  has  been  hunted  and  has 
learned  fear,  which  formerly  he  was  stranger 
to.  But  when  you  go  deep  into  the  wilder- 
ness, where  no  hunter  has  ever  gone,  and 
where  the  roar  of  a  birch-bark  trumpet  has 


258 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

never  broken  the  twilight  stillness,  there  you 
may  find  him  still,  as  he  was  before  fear 
'jghfy  came;  there  he  will  come  smashing  down 
the  mountain  side  at  your  call,  and  never 
circle  to  wind  an  enemy;  and  there,  when 
the  mood  is  on  him,  he  will  send  you  scram- 
bling up  the  nearest  tree  for  your  life,  as 
a  squirrel  goes  when  the  fox  is  after  him. 
Once,  in  such  a  mood,  I  saw  him  charge  a 
little  wiry  guide,  who  went  up  a  spruce  tree 
with  his  snowshoes  on  —  and  never  a  bear 
did  the  trick  quicker  —  spite  of  the  four-foot 
webs  in  which  his  feet  were  tangled. 

We  were  pushing   upstream,  late  one 
;    afternoon,  to  the  big  lake  at  the    head- 
waters  of  a  wilderness  river.     Above  the 
roar  of  rapids  far  behind,  and  the  fret  of 
tne  current  near  at  hand,  the  rhythmical 
clunk,  clunk  of  the  poles  and  the  lap,  lap 
of   my  little    canoe   as  she   breasted  the 
ripples  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke 
the  forest  stillness.     We   were  silent,  as 
men  always  are  to  whom  the  woods  have 
spoken  their  deepest  message, 


THE  WOODS      9 

and  to  whom  the  next  turn  of  the  river  may 
bring  its  thrill  of  unexpected  things. 

Suddenly,  as  the  bow  of  our  canoe  shot 
round  a  point,  we  ran  plump  upon  a  big  cow 
moose  crossing  the  river.  At  Simmo's  grunt 
of  surprise  she  stopped  short  and  whirled 
to  face  us.  And  there  she  stood,  one  huge 
question  mark  from  nose  to  tail,  while  the 
canoe  edged  in  to  the  lee  of  a  great  rock, 
and  hung  there  quivering,  with  poles  braced 
firmly  on  the  bottom. 

We  were  already  late  for  camping,  and  the 
lake  was  still  far  ahead.  I  gave  the  word, 
at  last,  after  a  few  minutes'  silent  watch- 
ing, and  the  canoe  shot  upward.  But  the 
big  moose,  instead  of  making  off  into  the 
woods,  as  a  well-behaved  moose  ought  to 
do,  splashed  straight  toward  us.  Simmo, 
in  the  bow,  gave  a  sweeping  flourish  of  his 
pole,  and  we  all  yelled  in  unison;  but  the 
moose  came  on  steadily,  quietly,  bound  to 
find  out  what  the  queer  thing  was  that  had 
just  come  up  river  and  broken  the  solemn 
stillness. 


259 


SCHOOL  OF 


260 


"  Bes'  keep  still ;  big  moose  make-um 
trouble  sometime,"  muttered  Noel  behind 
me;  and  we  dropped  back  silently  into  the 
lee  of  the  friendly  rock,  to  watch  awhile 
longer  and  let  the  big  creature  do  as  she 
would. 

For  ten  minutes  more  we  tried  every  kind 
of  threat  and  persuasion  to  get  the  moose 
out  of  the  way,  ending  at  last  by  sending 
a  bullet  zipping  into  the  water  under  her 
body;  but  beyond  an  angry  stamp  of  the 
foot  there  was  no  response,  and  no  disposi- 
tion whatever  to  give  us  the  stream.  Then 
I  bethought  me  of  a  trick  that  I  had  dis- 
covered long  before  by  accident.  Dropping 
down  to  the  nearest  bank,  I  crept  up  behind 
the  moose,  hidden  in  the  underbrush,  and 
began  to  break  twigs,  softly  at  first,  then 
more  and  more  sharply,  as  if  something  were 
coming  through  the  woods  fearlessly.  At 
the  first  suspicious  crack  the  moose  whirled, 
hesitated,  started  nervously  across  the  stream, 
twitching  her  nostrils  and  wigwagging  her 
big  ears  to  find  out  what  the  crackle  meant, 


THE  WOODS      & 

and  hurrying  more  and  more  as  the  sounds 
grated  harshly  upon  her  sensitive  nerves. 
Next  moment  the  river  was  clear  and  our 
canoe  was  breasting  the  rippling  shallows, 
while  the  moose  watched  us  curiously,  half 
hidden  in  the  alders. 

That  is  a  good  trick,  for  occasions.  The 
animals  all  fear  twig  snapping.  Only  never 
try  it  at  night,  with  a  bull,  in  the  calling 
season,  as  I  did  once  unintentionally.  Then 
he  is  apt  to  mistake  you  for  his  tantalizing 
mate,  and  come  down  on  you  like  a  tempest, 
giving  you  a  big  scare  and  a  monkey  scram- 
ble into  the  nearest  tree  before  he  is  satisfied. 

Within  the  next  hour  I  counted  seven 
moose,  old  and  young,  from  the  canoe ;  and 
when  we  ran  ashore  at  twilight  to  the  camp- 
ing ground  on  the  big  lake,  the  tracks  of  an 
enormous  bull  were  drawn  sharply  across 
our  landing.  The  water  was  still  trickling 
into  them,  showing  that  he  had  just  vacated 
the  spot  at  our  approach. 

How  do  I  know  it  was  a  bull  ?  At  this 
season  the  bulls  travel  constantly,  and  the 


SCHOOL  OF 


262 


points  of  the  hoofs  are  worn  to  a  clean,  even 
curve.  The  cows,  which  have  been  living 
in  deep  retirement  all  summer,  teaching 
their  ungainly  calves  the  sounds  and  smells 
and  lessons  of  the  woods,  travel  much  less; 
and  their  hoofs,  in  consequence,  are  generally 
long  and  pointed. 

Two  miles  above  our  camp  was  a  little 
brook,  with  an  alder  swale  on  one  side  and 
a  dark,  gloomy  spruce  tangle  on  the  other  — 
an  ideal  spot  for  a  moose  to  keep  her  little 
school,  I  thought,  when  I  discovered  the 
place  a  few  days  later.  There  were  tracks 
on  the  shore,  plenty  of  them ;  and  I  knew  I 
had  only  to  watch  long  enough  to  see  the 
mother  and  her  calf,  and  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
perhaps,  of  what  no  man  has  ever  yet  seen 
clearly;  that  is,  a  moose  teaching  her  little 
one  how  to  hide  his  bulk;  how  to  move 
noiselessly  and  undiscovered  through  under- 
brush where,  one  would  think,  a  fox  must 
make  his  presence  known ;  how  to  take  a 
windfall  on  the  run;  how  to  breast  down  a 
young  birch  or  maple  tree  and  keep  it  under 


THE  WOODS      & 

his  body  while  he  feeds  on  the  top,  —  and  a 
score  of  other  things  that  every  moose  must 
know  before  he  is  fit  to  take  care  of  himself 
in  the  big  woods. 

I  went  there  one  afternoon  in  my  canoe, 
grasped  a  few  lily  stems  to  hold  the  little 
craft  steady,  and  snuggled  down  till  only  my 
head  showed  above  the  gunwales,  so  as  to 
make  canoe  and  man  look  as  much  like  an 
old,  wind-blown  log  as  possible.  It  was  get- 
ting toward  the  hour  when  I  knew  the  cow 
would  be  hungry,  but  while  it  was  yet  too 
light  to  bring  her  little  one  to  the  open  shore. 
After  an  hour's  watching,  the  cow  came  cau- 
tiously down  the  brook.  She  stopped  short 
at  sight  of  the  big  log ;  watched  it  steadily  |' 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  wigwagging  her  I 
ears ;  then  began  to  feed  greedily  on  the  lily 
pads  that  fringed  all  the  shore.  When 
she  went  back  I  followed,  guided  now 
by  the  crack  of  a  twig,  now  by  a  sway 
ing  of  brush  tops,  now  by  the  flip 
of  a  nervous  ear  or  the  push  of  a 
huge  dark  body,  keeping  carefully 


uenaw/s 


M 


^     SCHOOL  OP 

leeward  all  the  time,  and  making  the  big 
unconscious  creature  guide  me  to  where 
she  had  hidden  her  little  one. 

Just  above  me,  and  a  hundred  yards  in 
from  the  shore,  a  tree  had  fallen,  its  bushy 
top  bending  down  two  small  spruces  and 
making  a  low  den,  so  dark  that  an  owl  could 
scarcely  have  seen  what  was  inside.  "  That 's 
the  spot,"  I  told  myself  instantly;  but  the 
mother  passed  well  above  it,  without  noting 
apparently  how  good  a  place  it  was.  Fifty 
yards  farther  on  she  turned  and  circled  back, 
below  the  spot,  trying  the  wind  with  ears  and 
nose  as  she  came  on  straight  towards  me. 

"Aha!  the  old  moose  trick,"  I  thought, 
remembering  how  a  hunted  moose  never  lies 
down  to  rest  without  first  circling  back  for  a 
long  distance,  parallel  to  his  trail  and  to  lee- 
ward, to  find  out  from  a  safe  distance  whether 
anything  is  following  him.  When  he  lies 
down,  at  last,  it  will  be  close  beside  his  trail, 
but  hidden  from  it;  so  that  he  hears  or 
smells  you  as  you  go  by.  And  when  you 
reach  the  place,  far  ahead,  where  he  turned 


THE  WOODS      9 

back  he  will  be  miles  away,  plunging  along 
down  wind  at  a  pace  that  makes  your  snow- 
shoe  swing  like  a  baby's  toddle.  So  you 
camp  where  he  lay  down,  and  pick  up  the 
trail  in  the  morning. 

When  the  big  cow  turned  and  came  strid- 
ing back  I  knew  that  I  should  find  her  little 
one  in  the  spruce  den.  But  would  she  not 
find  me,  instead,  and  drive  me  out  of  her 
bailiwick  ?  You  can  never  be  sure  what  a 
moose  will  do  if  she  finds  you  near  her  calf. 
Generally  they  run  —  always,  in  fact  — 
but  sometimes  they  run  your  way.  And 
besides,  I  had  been  trying  for  years  to  see 
a  mother  moose  teaching  in  her  little  school. 
Now  I  dropped  on  all  fours  and  crawled  away 
down  wind,  so  as  to  get  beyond  ken  of  the 
mother's  inquisitive  nose  if  possible. 

She  came  on  steadily,  moving  with  aston- 
ishing silence  through  the  tangle,  till  she 
stood  where  I  had  been  a  moment  before, 
when  she  started  violently  and  threw  her 
head  up  into  the  wind.  Some  scent  of  me 
was  there,  clinging  faintly  to  the  leaves  and 


^uenaw/s 


266 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

the  moist  earth.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
like  a  rock,  sifting  the  air  in  her  nose ;  then, 
finding  nothing  in  the  wind,  she  turned 
slowly  in  my  direction  to  use  her  ears  and 
eyes.  I  was  lying  very  still  behind  a  mossy 
log  by  this  time,  and  she  did  not  see  me. 
Suddenly  she  turned  and  called,  a  low  bleat. 
There  was  an  instant  stir  in  the  spruce 
den,  an  answering  bleat,  and  a  moose  calf 
scrambled  out  and  ran  straight  to  the  mother. 
There  was  an  unvoiced  command  to  silence 
that  no  human  sense  could  understand. 
The  mother  put  her  great  head  down  to 
earth  — "  Smell  of  that ;  mark  that,  and  re- 
member," she  was  saying  in  her  own  way; 
and  the  calf  put  his  little  head  down  beside 
*>.  hers,  and  I  heard  him  sniff-sniffing  the  leaves. 
12  Then  the  mother  swung  her  head  savagely, 
bunted  the  little  fellow  out  of  his  tracks, 
and  drove  him  hurriedly  ahead  of  her 
"  away  from  the  place  —  "  Get  out,  hurry, 
>  danger ! "  was  what  she  was  saying  now, 
*?\  and  emphasizing  her  teaching  with  an 
occasional  bunt  from  behind 


<=?*£* 


THE  WOODS      ® 

that  lifted  the  calf  over  the  hard  places. 
So  they  went  up  the  hill,  the  calf  wonder- 
ing and  curious,  yet  ever  reminded  by  the 
hard  head  at  his  flank  that  obedience  was 
his  business  just  now,  the  mother  turning 
occasionally  to  sniff  and  listen,  till  they  van- 
ished silently  among  the  dark  spruces. 

For  a  week  or  more  I  haunted  the  spot; 
but  though  I  saw  the  pair  occasionally,  in 
the  woods  or  on  the  shore,  I  learned  no 
more  of  Umquenawis'  secrets.  The  moose 
schools  are  kept  in  far-away,  shady  dingles, 
beyond  reach  of  inquisitive  eyes.  Then,  one 
morning  at  daylight  as  my  canoe  shot  round 
a  grassy  point,  there  were  the  mother  and 
her  calf  standing  knee-deep  among  the  lily 
pads.  With  a  yell  I  drove  the  canoe  straight 
at  the  little  one. 

Now  it  takes  a  young  moose  or  caribou  a 
long  time  to  learn  that  when  sudden  danger 
threatens  he  is  to  follow,  not  his  own  fright- 
ened head,  but  his  mother's  guiding  tail. 
To  young  fawns  this  is  practically  the  first 
thing  taught  by  the  mothers ;  but  caribou 


268 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

are  naturally  stupid,  or  trustful,  or  burningly 
inquisitive,  according  to  their  several  disposi- 
tions ;  and  moose,  with  their  great  strength, 
are  naturally  fearless ;  so  that  this  .  needful 
lesson  is  slowly  learned.  If  you  surprise  a 
mother  moose  or  caribou  with  her  young  at 
close  quarters,  and  rush  at  them  instantly, 
with  a  whoop  or.  two  to  scatter  their  wits, 
the  chances  are  that  the  mother  will  bolt 
into  the  brush,  where  safety  lies,  and  the  calf 
into  the  lake  or  along  the  shore,  where  the 
going  is  easiest. 

Several  times  I  have  caught  young  moose 
and  caribou  in  this  way,  either  swimming  or 
stogged  in  the  mud,  and  after  turning  them 
back  to  shore  have  watched  the  mother's 
cautious  return  and  her  treatment  of  the 
lost  one.  Once  I  paddled  up  beside  a  young 
bull  moose,  half  grown,  and 
grasping  the  coarse  hair  on 
?.-  his  back  had  him  tow  me  a 
,  hundred  yards,  to  the  next 
point,  while  I  studied 
his  expression. 


THE  WOODS      © 

As  my  canoe  shot  up  to  the  two  moose, 
they  did  exactly  what  I  had  expected;  the 
mother  bolted  for  the  woods  in  mighty, 
floundering  jumps,  mud  and  water  flying 
merrily  about  her;  while  the  calf  darted  7AeffJi£h?y 
along  the  shore,  got  caught  in  the  lily  pads, 
and  with  a  despairing  bleat  settled  down  in 
the  mud  of  a  soft  place,  up  to  his  back,  and 
turned  his  head  to  see  what  I  was. 

I  ran  my  canoe  ashore  and  approached 
the  little  fellow  quietly,  without  hurry  or  ex- 
citement. Nose,  eyes,  and  ears  questioned 
me;  and  his  fear  gradually  changed  to  curi- 
osity as  he  saw  how  harmless  a  thing  had 
frightened  him.  He  even  tried  to  pull  his 
awkward  little  legs  out  of  the  mud  in  my 
direction.  Meanwhile  the  big  mother  moose 
was  thrashing  around  in  the  bushes  in  a  ter- 
rible s wither,  calling  her  calf  to  come. 

I  had  almost  reached  the  little  fellow  when 
the  wind  brought  him  the  strong  scent  that 
he  had  learned  in  the  woods  a  few  days 
before,  and  he  bleated  sharply.  There  was 
an  answering  crash  of  brush,  a  pounding  of 


270 
l/mwienaw/s 


53     SCHOOL  OF 

hoofs  that  told  one  unmistakably  to  look  out 
for  his  rear,  and  out  of  the  bushes  burst  the 
mother,  her  eyes  red  as  a  wild  pig's,  and 
the  long  hair  standing  straight  up  along  her 
back  in  a  terrifying  bristle.  "  Stand  not  upon 
the  order  of  your  mogging,  but  mog  at  once 
—  eeeunh  !  unh  !  "  she  grunted ;  and  I  turned 
otter  instantly  and  took  to  the  lake,  diving 
as  soon  as  the  depth  allowed  and  swimming 
under  water  to  escape  the  old  fury's  atten- 
tion. There  was  little  need  of  fine  tactics, 
however,  as  I  found  out  when  my  head 
appeared  again  cautiously.  Anything  in 
the  way  of  an  unceremonious  retreat 
satisfied  her  as  perfectly  as  if  she  had 
been  a  Boer  general.  She  went 
straight  to  her  calf,  thrust  her 
great  head  under  his  belly,  hiked 
him  roughly  out  of  the  mud, 
and  then  butted  him  ahead  of 
her  into  the  bushes. 

It  was  stern,  rough  discipline ;  but  the 
youngster  needed  it  to  teach  him  the  wis- 
dom of  the  woods.  From  a  distance  I 


THE  WOODS      ® 

watched  the  quivering  line  of  brush  tops 
that  marked  their  course,  and  then  followed 
softly.  When  I  found  them  again,  in  the 
twilight  of  the  great  spruces,  the  mother  was 
licking  the  sides  of  her  calf,  lest  he  should 
grow  cold  too  suddenly  after  his  unwonted 
bath.  All  the  fury  and  harshness  were  gone. 
Her  great  head  lowered  tenderly  over  the 
foolish,  ungainly  youngster,  tonguing  him, 
caressing  him,  drying  and  warming  his  poor 
sides,  telling  him  in  mother  language  that  it 
was  all  right  now,  and  that  next  time  he 
would  do  better. 

There  were  other  moose  on  the  lake,  all 
of  them  as  uncertain  as  the  big  cow  and 
her  calf.  Probably  most  of  them  had  never 
seen  a  man  before  our  arrival,  and  it  kept 
one's  expectations  on  tiptoe  to  know  what 
they  would  do  when  they  saw  the  strange 
two-legged  creature  for  the  first  time.  If  a 
moose  smelled  me  before  I  saw  him,  he 
would  make  off  quietly  into  the  woods,  as 
all  wild  creatures  do,  and  watch  from  a 
safe  distance.  But  if  I  stumbled  upon  him 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

unexpectedly,   when    the    wind    brought    no 

1/fiJQiiensw/s  warnm£  *°  n^s  nostrils,  he  was  fearless, 
usually,  and  full  of  curiosity. 

The  worst  of  them  all  was  the  big  bull 
whose  tracks  were  on  the  shore  when  we 
arrived.  He  was  a  morose,  ugly  old  brute, 
living  apart  by  himself,  with  his  temper 
always  on  edge  ready  to  bully  anything  that 
dared  to  cross  his  path  or  question  his  lord- 
ship. Whether  he  was  an  outcast,  grown 
surly  from  living  too  much  alone,  or  whether 
he  bore  some  old  bullet  wound  to  account 
for  his  hostility  to  man,  I  could  never  find 
out.  Far  down  the  river  a  hunter  had  been 
killed,  ten  years  before,  by  a  bull  moose  that 
he  had  wounded ;  and  this  may  have  been, 
as  Noel  declared,  the  same  animal,  cherishing 
his  resentment  with  a  memory  as  merciless 
as  an  Indian's. 

Before  we  had  found  this  out  I  stumbled 
upon  the  big  bull  one  afternoon,  and  came 
near  paying  the  penalty  of  my  ignorance. 
I  had  been  still-fishing  for  togue,  and  was 
on  my  way  back  to  camp  when,  doubling  a 


THE  WOODS      0 

point,  I  ran  plump  upon  a  bull  moose  feed- 
ing among  the  lily  pads.  My  approach  had 
been  perfectly  silent,  —  that  is  the  only  way 
to  see  things  in  the  woods,  —  and  he  was 
quite  unconscious  that  anybody  but  himself 
was  near. 

He  would  plunge  his  great  head  under 
water  till  only  his  antler  tips  showed,  and 
nose  around  on  the  bottom  till  he  found  a 
lily  root.  With  a  heave  and  a  jerk  he  would 
drag  it  out,  and  stand  chewing  it  endwise 
with  huge  satisfaction,  while  the  muddy 
water  trickled  down  over  his  face.  When 
it  was  all  eaten  he  would  grope  under  the 
lily  pads  for  another  root  in  the  same  way. 

Without  thinking  much  of  the  possible   ('y 
risk,  I  began  to  creep  towards  him.    While  , 
his  head  was  under  I  would  work  the 
canoe   along   silently,  simply  "  rolling 
the  paddle  "  without  lifting  it  from  the 
water.     At  the  first  lift  of  his  antlers 
I  would  stop  and  sit  low  in  the  canoe 
till  he  finished  his  juicy  .mor- 
sel   and   ducked  for  more. 


SCHOOL  OF 


Then  one  could  slip  along  easily  again  with- 
out being  discovered. 

Two  or  three  times  this  was  repeated  suc- 
cessfully, and  still  the  big,  unconscious  brute, 
facing  away  from  me  fortunately,  had  no  idea 
that  he  was  being  watched.  His  head  went 
under  water  again  —  not  so  deep  this  time ; 
but  I  was  too  absorbed  in  the  pretty  game  to 
notice  that  he  had  found  the  end  of  a  root 
above  the  mud,  and  that  his  ears  were  out  of 
water.  A  ripple  from  the  bow  of  my  canoe, 
or  perhaps  the  faint  brush  of  a  lily  leaf 
against  the  side,  reached  him.  His  head 
burst  out  of  the  pads  unexpectedly ;  with  a 
snort  and  a  mighty  flounder  he  whirled  upon 
me ;  and  there  he  stood  quivering,  ears,  eyes, 
nose  —  everything  about  him  reaching  out 
to  me  and  shooting  questions  at  my  head 
with  an  insistence  that  demanded  instant 
answer. 

I  kept  quiet,  though  I  was  altogether  too 
near  the  big  brute  for  comfort,  till  an  unfor- 
tunate breeze  brushed  the  bow  of  my  canoe 
still  nearer  to  where  he  stood,  threatening 


THE  WOODS      ® 

now  instead  of  questioning.  The  mane  on 
his  back  began  to  bristle,  and  I  knew  that  I 
had  but  a  small  second  in  which  to  act.  To 
get  speed  I  swung  the  bow  of  the  canoe  out- 
ward, instead  of  backing  away.  The  move- 
ment brought  me  a  trifle  nearer,  yet  gave  me 
a  chance  to  shoot  by  him.  At  the  first  sud- 
den motion  he  leaped;  the  red  fire  blazed 
out  in  his  eyes,  and  he  plunged  straight  at 
the  canoe  —  one,  two  splashing  jumps,  and 
the  huge  velvet  antlers  were  shaking  just 
over  me  and  the  deadly  fore  foot  was  raised 
for  a  blow. 

I  rolled  over  on  the  instant,  startling  the 
brute  with  a  yell  as  I  did  so,  and  upsetting 
the  canoe  between  us.  There  was  a  splinter- 
ing crack  behind  me  as  I  struck  out  for  deep 
water.  When  I  turned,  at  a  safe  distance,  the 
bull  had  driven  one  sharp  hoof  through  the 
bottom  of  the  upturned  canoe,  and  was  now 
trying  awkwardly  to  pull  his  leg  out  from  the 
clinging  cedar  ribs.  He  seemed  frightened 
at  the  queer,  dumb  thing  that  gripped  his 
foot,  for  he  grunted  and  jumped  back,  and 


V     SCHOOL  OJF 

thrashed  his  big  antlers  in  excitement;  but 
he  was  getting  madder  every  minute. 

To  save  the  canoe  from  being  pounded  to 
pieces  was  now  the  only  pressing  business 
on  hand.  All  other  considerations  took  to 
the  winds  in  the  thought  that,  if  the  bull's 
fury  increased  and  he  leaped  upon  the  canoe, 
as  he  does  when  he  means  to  kill,  one  jump 
would  put  the  frail  thing  beyond  repair,  and 
we  should  have  to  face  the  dangerous  river 
below  in  a  spruce  bark  of  our  own  building. 
I  swam  quickly  to  the  shore  and  splashed 
and  shouted  and  then  ran  away  to  attract  the 
bull's  attention.  He  came  after  me  on  the 
instant  —  unh  !  unh  !  chock,  chockety-chock  / 
till  he  was  close  enough  for  discomfort,  when 
I  took  to  water  again.  The  bull  followed, 
deeper  and  deeper,  till  his  sides  were  awash. 
The  bottom  was  muddy,  and  he  trod  gin- 
gerly; but  there  was  no  fear  of  his  swim- 
ming after  me.  He  knows  his  limits,  and 
they  stop  him  shoulder  deep. 

When  he  would  follow  no  farther  I  swam 
to  the  canoe  and  tugged  it  out  into  deep 


THE  WOODS 


water.  Umquenawis  stood  staring  now  in 
astonishment  at  the  sight  of  this  queer  man- 
fish.  The  red  light  died  out  of  his  eyes  for 
the  first  time,  and  his  ears  wigwagged  like 
flags  in  the  wind.  He  made  no  effort  to 
follow,  but  stood  as  he  was,  shoulder  deep, 
staring,  wondering,  till  I  landed  on  the  point 
above,  whipped  the  canoe  over,  and  spilled 
the  water  out  of  it. 

The  paddle  was  still  fast  to  its  cord  —  as 
it  should  always  be  in  trying  experiments  — 
and  I  tossed  it  into  the  canoe.  The  rattle 
roused  Umquenawis  from  his  wonder,  as  if 
he  had  heard  the  challenging  clack  of  antlers 
on  the  alder  stems.  He  floundered  out  in 
mighty  jumps  and  came  swinging  along  the 
shore,  chocking  and  grunting  fiercely.  He 
had  seen  the  man  again,  and  knew  it  was  no 
fish  —  Unh!  unh!  eeeeeunh-unh !  he  grunted, 
with  a  twisting,  jerky  wriggle  of  his  neck 
and  shoulders  at  the  last  squeal,  as  if  he  felt 
me  already  beneath 
his  hoofs.  But  before 
he  reached  the  point 
V*  jfS~- 


Qizenaw/s 


g 
l/jnouenaw/s 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

I  had  stuffed  my  flannel  shirt  into  the  hole 

*n  ^e  canoe  anc*  was  safely  afloat  once  more. 
He  followed  along  the  shore  till  he  heard 
the  sound  of  voices  at  camp,  when  he  turned 
instantly  and  vanished  into  the  woods. 

A  few  days  later  I  saw  the  grumpy  old 
brute  again  in  a  curious  way.  I  was  sweep- 
ing the  lake  with  my  field  glasses  when  I  saw 
what  I  thought  was  a  pair  of  black  ducks 
near  a  grassy  shore.  I  paddled  over,  watch- 
ing them  keenly,  till  a  root  seemed  to  rise 
out  of  the  water  between  them.  Before  I 
could  get  my  glasses  adjusted  again  they 
had  disappeared.  I  dropped  the  glasses  and 
paddled  faster;  they  were  diving,  perhaps  — 
an  unusual  thing  for  black  ducks  —  and  I 
might  surprise  them.  There  they  were 
again;  and  there  again  was  the  old  root 
bobbing  up  unexpectedly  between  them.  I 
whipped  my  glasses  up  —  the  mystery  van- 
ished. The  two  ducks  were  the  tips  of 
Umquenawis'  big  antlers;  the  root  that  rose 
between  them  was  his  head,  as  he  came  up 
to  breathe. 


THE  WOODS      ® 

It  was  a  close,  sultry  afternoon;  the  flies 
and  mosquitoes  were  out  in  myriads,  and 
Umquenawis  had  taken  a  philosophical  way 
of  getting  rid  of  them.  He  was  lying  in 
deep  water,  over  a  bed  of  mud,  his  body 
completely  submerged.  As  the  swarm  of 
flies  that  pestered  him  rose  to  his  head  he 
sunk  it  slowly,  drowning  them  off.  Through 
my  glass,  as  I  drew  near,  I  could  see  a  cloud 
of  them  hovering  above  the  wavelets,  or 
covering  the  exposed  antlers.  After  a  few 
moments  there  would  be  a  bubbling  grumble 

down  in  the  mud,  as  Umquenawis    .  „  /«>  . 

"» *».-.•  ~- 

blew  the  air  from  his  great  lungs. 
His  head  would  come  up  lazily,  to 
breathe  among  the  popping  bubbles ; 
the  flies  would  settle  upon  him  like  a 
cloud,  and  he  would  disappear  again, 
blinking  sleepily  as  he  went  down, 
with  an  air  of  immense  satisfaction. 

It  seemed  too  bad  to  disturb  such  comfort, 
but  I  wanted  to  know  more  about  the  surly 
old  tyrant  that  had  treated  me  with  such 
scant  courtesy;  so  I  stole  near  him  again, 


279 


7Ae  Mighty 


SCHOOL  OJF 


280 


running  up  when  his  head  disappeared,  and 
lying  quiet  whenever  he  came  up  to  breathe. 
He  saw  me  at  last,  and  leaped  up  with  a  ter- 
rible start.  There  was  fear  in  his  eyes  this 
time.  Here  was  the  man-fish  again,  the 
creature  that  lived  on  land  or  water,  and 
that  could  approach  him  so  silently  that 
the  senses,  in  which  he  had  always  trusted, 
gave  him  no  warning.  He  stared  hard  for  a 
moment;  then  as  the  canoe  glided  rapidly 
straight  towards  him  without  fear  or  hesita- 
tion he  waded  out,  stopping  every  instant  to 
turn,  and  look,  and  try  the  wind,  till  he  reached 
the  fringe  of  woods  beyond  the  grasses.  There 
he  thrust  his  nose  up  ahead  of  him,  laid  his 
big  antlers  back  on  his  shoulders,  and  plowed 
straight  through  the  tangle  like  a  great  engine, 
the  alders  snapping  and  crashing  merrily  about 
him  as  he  went. 

In  striking  contrast  was  the  next  meeting. 
I  was  out  at  midnight,  jacking,  and  passed 
close  by  a  point  where  I  had  often  seen  the 
big  bull's  tracks.  He  was  not  there,  and  I 
closed  the  jack  and  went  on  along  the  shore, 


THE  WOODS      ® 

listening  for  any  wood  folk  that  might  be 
abroad.  When  I  came  back  a  few  minutes 
later,  there  was  a  suspicious  ripple  on  the 
point.  I  opened  the  jack,  and  there  was 
Umquenawis,  my  big  bull,  standing  out  huge 
and  magnificent  against  the  shadowy  back- 
ground, his  eyes  glowing  and  flashing  in 
fierce  wonder  at  the  sudden  brightness.  He 
had  passed  along  the  shore  within  twenty 
yards  of  me,  through  dense  underbrush, — 
as  I  found  out  from  his  tracks  next  morning, 
—  yet  so  silently  did  he  push  his  great  bulk 
through  the  trees,  halting,  listening,  trying  the 
ground  at  every  step  for  telltale  twigs  ere  he 
put  his  weight  down,  that  I  had  heard  no 
sound,  though  I  was  listening  for  him  intently 
in  the  dead  hush  that  was  on  the  lake. 

It  may  have  been  curiosity,  or  the  uncom- 
fortable sense  of  being  watched  and  followed 
by  the  man-fish,  who  neither  harmed 
nor  feared  him,  that  brought  Umque- 
nawis at  last  to  our  camp  to  investigate. 
One    day    Noel    was    washing 
some    clothes    of    mine 


JAeff/ghfy 


jn// 
ijlfl 


SCHOOL  OP 


282 


r 


the  lake  when  some  subtle  warning  made 
^^m  *urn  ^^s  head.  There  stood  the  big 
*hty  bull,  na^  hidden  by  the  dwarf  spruces, 
watching  him  intently.  On  the  instant 
Noel  left  the  duds  where  they  were  and 
bolted  along  the  shore  under  the  bushes, 
calling  me  loudly  to  come  quick  and  bring 
my  rifle.  When  we  went  back  Umquenawis 
had  trodden  the  clothes  into  the  mud,  and 
vanished  as  silently  as  he  came. 

The  Indians  grew  insistent  at  this,  telling 
me  of  the  hunter  that  had  been  killed,  claim- 
ing now,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  this  was  the 
same  bull,  and  urging  me  to  kill  the  ugly 
brute  and  rid  the  woods  of  a  positive  danger. 
But  Umquenawis  was  already  learning  the 
fear  of  me,  and  I  thought  the  lesson  might 
be  driven  home  before  the  summer  was 
ended.  So  it  was ;  but  before  that  time 
there  was  almost  a  tragedy. 

One  day  a  timber  cruiser — a  lonely,  silent 
man  with  the  instincts  of  an  animal  for  find- 

g  his  way  in  the  woods,  whose  business  it 
to  go  over  timber  lands  to  select  the 


THE  WOODS      0 

best  sites  for  future  cutting  —  came  up  to  the 
lake  and,  not  knowing  that  we  were  there, 
pitched  by  a  spring  a  mile  or  two  below  us. 
I  saw  the  smoke  of  his  camp  fire  from  the 
lake,  where  I  was  fishing,  and  wondered  who 
had  come  into  the  great  solitude.  That  was 
in  the  morning.  Towards  twilight  I  went 
down  to  bid  the  stranger  welcome,  and  to 
invite  him  to  share  our  camp,  if  he  would. 
I  found  him  stiff  and  sore  by  his  fire,  eating 
raw-pork  sandwiches  with  the  appetite  of  a 
wolf.  Almost  at  the  same  glance  I  saw  the 
ground  about  a  tree  torn  up,  and  the  hoof 
marks  of  a  big  bull  moose  all  about. — 

"Hello!  friend,  what's  up?"  I  hailed 
him. 

"  Got  a  rifle  ?  "  he  demanded,  with  a  rich 
Irish  burr  in  his  voice,  paying  no  heed  to 
my  question.  When  I  nodded  he  bolted  for 
my  canoe,  grabbed  my  rifle,  and  ran  away 
into  the  woods. 

"  Queer  Dick !  unbalanced,  perhaps,  by 
living  too  much  alone  in  the  woods,"  I 
thought,  and  took  to  examining  the  torn 


Ibttkuenaw/s 
Jfieff/ghfy 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

ground  and  the  bull's  tracks  to  find  out  for 
myself  what  had  happened. 

But  there  was  no  queerness  in  the  frank, 
kindly  face  that  met  mine  when  the  stranger 
came  out  of  the  bush  a  half  hour  later.  — 

"  Th'  ould  baste !  he  's  had  me  perrched 
up  in  that  three  there,  like  a  blackburrd,  the 
last  tin  hours ;  an'  divil  th'  song  in  me  throat 
or  a  bite  in  me  stomach.  He  wint  just  as 
you  came  —  I  thought  I  could  returrn  his 
compliments  wid  a  bullet,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, as  he  passed  me  back  the  rifle. 

Then,  sitting  by  his  fire,  he  told  me  his 
story.     He  had  just  lit  his  fire  that  morning, 
and  was  taking  off  his  wet  stockings  to  dry 
them,  when  there  was  a  fierce  crashing  and 
grunting    behind    him,   and    a    bull    moose 
charged  out  of  the  bushes  like  a  fury. 
The  cruiser  jumped  and  dodged;  then, 
as  the   bull  whirled  again,  he  swung 
himself  into  a  tree,  and  sat  there  astride 
a  limb,  while  the  bull  grunted  and 
pushed  and  hammered  the  ground 
below  with  his  sharp  hoofs.     All 


THE  WOODS 


day  long  the  moose  had  kept  up  the  siege, 
now  drawing  off  cunningly  to  hide  in  the 
bushes,  now  charging  out  savagely  as  the 
timber  cruiser  made  effort  to  come  down 
from  his  uncomfortable  perch. 

A  few  minutes  before  my  approach  a 
curious  thing  happened ;  which  seems  to  indi- 
cate, as  do  many  other  things  in  the  woods, 
that  certain  animals  —  perhaps  all  animals, 
including  man  —  have  at  times  an  unknown 
sixth  sense,  for  which  there  is  no  name  and 
no  explanation.  I  was  still  half  a  mile  or 
more  away,  hidden  by  a  point  and  paddling 
silently  straight  into  the  wind.  No  possible 
sight  or  sound  or  smell  of  me  could  have 
reached  any  known  sense  of  any  animal ;  yet 
the  big  brute  began  to  grow  uneasy.  He 
left  his  stand  under  the  tree  and  circled 
nervously  around  it,  looking,  listening,  wig- 
wagging his  big  ears,  trying  the  wind  at 
every  step,  and  setting  his  hoofs  down  as 
if  he  trod  on  dynamite.  Suddenly  he  turned 
and  vanished  silently  into  the  brush.  McGar- 
ven,  the  timber  cruiser,  who  had  no  idea  that 


enaw/s 


there  was  any  man  but  himself  on  the  lake, 

IS/nouenawfs  watc^ec^  tne  ^u^  w^tn  growing  wonder  and 
distrust,  thinking  him  possessed  of  some  evil 
demon.  In  his  long  life  in  the  woods  he 
had  met  hundreds  of  moose,  but  had  never 
been  molested  before. 

With  the  rifle  at  full  cock  and  his  heart 
hot  within  him,  he  had  followed  the  trail, 
which  stole  away,  cautiously  at  first,  then  in 
a  long  swinging  stride  straight  towards  the 
mountain.  • —  "  Oh,  't  is  the  quare  baste  he  is 
altogether !  "  he  said  as  he  finished  his  story. 


T  was  now  near  the  calling 
season,  and  the  nights 
grew  keen  with  excite- 
ment. Now  and  then 
as  I  fished,  or  followed  the  brooks,  or  prowled 
through  the  woods  in  the  late  afternoon,  the 
sudden  bellow  of  a  cow  moose  would  break 
upon  the  stillness,  so  strange  and  uncertain 
in  the  thick  coverts  that  I  could  rarely 
describe,  much  less  imitate,  the  sound,  or 
even  tell  the  direction  whence  it  had  come. 

Under  the  dusk  of  the  lake  shore  I  would 
289 


290 

Jfffie  Sound  of 
Sfte  Prutnpef 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

sometimes  come  upon  a  pair  of  the  huge 
animals,  the  cow  restless,  wary,  impatient, 
the  bull  now  silent  as  a  shadow,  now  ripping 
and  rasping  the  torn  velvet  from  his  great 
antlers  among  the  alders,  and  now  threaten- 
ing and  browbeating  every  living  thing  that 
crossed  his  trail,  and  even  the  unoffending 
bushes,  in  his  testy  humor. 

One  night  I  went  to  the  landing  just 
below  my  tent  with  Simmo  and  tried  for 
the  first  time  the  long  call  of  the  cow  moose. 
He  and  Noel  refused  absolutely  to  give  it, 
unless  I  should  agree  to  shoot  the  ugly  old 
bull  at  sight.  Several  times  of  late  they  had 
seen  him  near  our  camp,  or  had  crossed  his 
deep  trail  on  the  nearer  shores,  and  they 
were  growing  superstitious  as  well  as  fearful. 

There  was  no  answer  to  our  calling  for 
the  space  of  an  hour;  silence  brooded  like 
a  living,  watchful  thing  over 
sleeping  lake  and  forest,  —  a 


THE  WOODS      9 

silence   that   grew  only  deeper  and  deeper 

after  the  last  echoes  of  the  bark  trumpet  had 

rolled  back  on  us  from  the  distant  mountain. 

Suddenly  Simmo  lowered  the  horn,  just  as  Jlf  foe  Sound  of 

he  had  raised  it  to  his  lips  for  a  call.  3Kte  3rumpef 

"  Moose  near !  "  he  whispered. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  I  breathed ;  for  I 
had  heard  nothing. 

"  Don'  know  how;  just  know,"  he  said  sul- 
lenly. An  Indian  hates  to  be  questioned, 
as  a  wild  animal  hates  to  be  watched.  As  if 
in  confirmation  of  his  opinion,  there  was  a 
startling  crash  and  plunge  across  the  little 
bay  over  against  us  as  a  bull  moose  leaped 
the  bank  into  the  lake,  within  fifty  yards  of 
where  we  crouched  on  the  shore. 

"  Shoot !  shoot-um  quick  !  "  cried  Simmo ; 
and  the  fear  of  the  old  bull  was  in  his  voice. 
There  was  a  grunt  from  the  moose  —  a 
ridiculously  small,  squeaking  grunt,  like  the 
voice  of  a  penny  trumpet — as  the  huge 
creature  swung  rapidly  along  the  shore  in 
our  direction.  "  Uh !  young  bull,  lil  fool 
moose,"  whispered  Simmo,  and  breathed 


Sfie  tfru/noe? 


¥     SCHOOL  OJF 

a  soft,  questioning  Whooowuh?  through  the 

bark  horn  to  brin§  him  nearen 

He  came  close  to  where  we  were  hidden, 

then  entered  the  woods  and  circled  silently 
about  our  camp  to  get  our  wind.  In  the 
morning  his  tracks,  within  five  feet  of  my 
rear  tent  pole,  showed  how  little  he  cared 
for  the  dwelling  of  man.  But  though  he 
circled  back  and  forth  for  an  hour,  answer- 
ing Simmo's  low  call  with  his  ridiculous 
little  grunt,  he  would  not  show  himself  again 
on  the  open  shore. 

I  stole  up  after  a  while  to  where  I  had 
heard  the  last  twig  snap  under  his  hoofs. 
Simmo  held  me  back,  whispering  of  danger  ; 
but  there  was  a  question  in  my  head  which 
has  never  received  a  satisfactory  answer: 
Why  does  a  bull  come  to  a  call  anyway?  It 
is  held  generally  —  and  with  truth,  I  think  — 
that  he  comes  because  he  thinks  the  sound 
is  made  by  a  cow  moose.  But  how  his  keen 
ears  could  mistake  such  a  palpable  fraud  is 
the  greatest  mystery  in  the  woods.  I  have 
heard  a  score  of  hunters  and  Indians  call,  all 


THE  WOODS      ® 

differently,  and  have  sometimes  brought  a 
bull   into  the  open  at  the  wail  of  my  own 


bark  trumpet ;  but  I  have  never  yet  listened 

to  a  call  that  has  any  resemblance  to  the  SIflheSoundof 

bellow  of  a  cow  moose  as  I  have  often  heard 

it  in  the  woods.     Nor  have  I  ever  heard,  or 

ever   met   anybody  who   has   heard,  a   cow 

moose  give  forth  any  sound  like  the  "long 

call "  which  is  made  by  hunters,  and  which 

is  used  successfully  to  bring  the  bull  from  a 

distance. 

Others  claim,  and  with  some  reason,  that 
the  bull,  more  fearless  and  careless  at  this 
season  than  at  other  times,  comes  merely 
to  investigate  the  sound,  as  he  and  most 
other  wild  creatures  do  with  every  queer  or 
unknown  thing  they  hear.  The  Alaskan 
Indians  stretch  a  skin  into  a  kind  of  tam- 
bourine and  beat  it  with  a  club  to  call  a  bull; 
which  sound,  however,  might  not  be  unlike 
one  of  the  many  peculiar  bellows  that  I  have 
heard  from  cow  moose  in  the  wilderness. 
And  I  have  twice  known  bulls  to  come  to 
the  chuck  of  an  ax  on  a  block ;  which  sound, 


294 

Jlfffie  Sound  of 
Me  tfru/npef 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

at  a  distance,  has  some  resemblance  to  the 
peculiar  chock-chocking  that  the  bulls  use  to 
call  their  mates  —  just  as  a  turkey  cock  gob- 
bles, and  a  partridge  drums,  and  a  bull  cari- 
bou pounds  a  stump  or  a  hollow  tree  with 
the  same  foolish-fond  expectations. 

From  any  point  of  view  the  thing  has 
contradictions  enough  to  make  one  wary  of 
a  too  positive  opinion.  Here  at  hand  was  a 
"  HI  fool  moose,"  who  knew  no  fear,  and  who 
might,  therefore,  enlighten  me  on  the  obscure 
subject.  I  told  Simmo  to  keep  on  calling 
softly,  while  I  crept  up  into  the  woods 
to  watch  the  effect. 

It  was  all  as  dark  as  a  pocket  beyond 
the  open  shore.     One  had  to 
feel  his  way  along,  and  imitate 
the  moose  himself  in  putting 
his  feet  down.     Spite  of  my 
precaution,    a    bush    swished 
sharply;   a  twig   cracked. 
Instantly  there  was  a  swift 
answering  rustle  ahead  as 
the  bull  glided  towards  me. 


THE  WOODS      ^ 

He  had  heard  the  motion  and  was  coming 

to  see  if  it  were  not  his  tantalizing  mate, 

ready  to  whack  her  soundly,  according  to  his 

wont,  for  causing  him  so  much  worry,  and  to  /If  ffie  Sound  of 

beat  her  out  ahead  of  him  to  the  open,  where  3ne  Cfirumpef 

he  could  watch  her  closely  and  prevent  any 

more  of  her  hiding  tricks. 

I  stood  motionless  behind  a  tree,  grasp- 
ing a  branch  above,  ready  to  swing  up  out 
of  reach  when  the  bull  charged.  A  vague 
black  hulk  thrust  itself  out  of  the  dark 
woods,  close  in  front  of  me,  and  stood  still. 
Against  the  faint  light,  which  showed  from 
the  lake  through  the  fringe  of  trees,  the 
great  head  and  antlers  stood  out  like  an 
upturned  root ;  but  I  had  never  known  that 
a  living  creature  stood  there  were  it  not  for 
a  soft,  clucking  rumble  that  the  bull  kept 
going  in  his  throat,  —  a  ponderous  kind  of 
love  note,  intended,  no  doubt,  to  let  his 
elusive  mate  know  that  he  was  near. 

He  took  another  step  in  my  direction, 
brushing  the  leaves  softly,  a  low,  whining 
grunt  telling  of  his  impatience.  Two  more 


296 
Jlfffie  Sound  at 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

steps  and  he  must  have  discovered  me,  when 
fortunately  an  appealing  gurgle  and  a  meas- 
ured plop,  plop,  plop  —  the  feet  of  a  moose 
falling  in  shallow  water  —  sounded  from  the 
shore  below,  where  Simmo  was  concealed. 
Instantly  the  bull  turned  and  glided  away,  a 
shadow  among  the  shadows.  A  few  minutes 
later  I  heard  him  running  off  in  the  direction 
whence  he  had  first  come. 

After  that  the  twilight  always  found  him 
near   our   camp.      He    was   convinced    that 
there  was  a  mate  hiding   somewhere   near, 
and  he  was  bound  to  find  her.    We  had 
only  to  call  a  few  times  from  our  canoe, 
or   from    the   shore,  and   presently   we 
would   hear   him    coming,  blowing  his 
penny  trumpet,  and  at  last  see  him  break 
out    upon    the    shore    with    a   crashing 
ff    plunge  to  waken  all 
•i.  the  echoes.     Then, 


THE  WOODS      ® 

one    night    as    we    lay    alongside    a    great 
rock  in  deep  shadow,  watching  the  puzzled 


young  bull  as  he  ranged  along  the  shore  in 

the  moonlight,  Simmo  grunted  softly  to  call  Slfjfre  Sound  of 

him  nearer.  At  the  sound  a  larger  bull,  that 
we  had  not  suspected,  leaped  out  of  the 
bushes  close  beside  us  and  splashed  straight 
at  the  canoe.  Only  the  quickest  kind  of 
work  saved  us.  Simmo  swung  the  bow  off, 
with  a  startled  grunt  of  his  own,  and  I  pad- 
dled away;  while  the  bull,  mistaking  us  in 
the  dim  light  for  the  exasperating  cow  that 
had  been  calling  and  hiding  herself  for  a 
week,  followed  after  us  into  deep  water. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  this 
moose,  at  least,  had  come  to  what  he  thought 
was  the  call  of  a  mate.  Moonlight  is  decep- 
tive beyond  a  few  feet,  and  when  the  low 
grunt  sounded  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
rock  he  was  sure  he  had  found  the  coy  crea- 
ture at  last,  and  broke  out  of  his  conceal- 
ment resolved  to  keep  her  in  sight  and  not 
to  let  her  get  away  again.  That  is  why  he 
swam  after  us.  Had  he  been  investigating 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

r>     some  new  sound  or  possible  danger,  he  would 

J/fffi  So  dof  never  nave  kft  the  lanc^ wnere  alone  his  great 
power  and  his  wonderful  senses  have  full 
play.  In  the  water  he  is  harmless,  as  most 
other  wild  creatures  are. 

I  paddled  cautiously  just  ahead  of  him,  so 
near  that,  looking  over  my  shoulder,  I  could 
see  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  the  waves  crink- 
ling away  before  the  push  of  his  great  nose. 
After  a  short  swim  he  grew  suspicious  of 
the  queer  thing  that  kept  just  so  far  ahead, 
whether  he  swam  fast  or  slow,  and  turned  in 
towards  the  shore,  whining  his  impatience. 
I  followed  slowly,  letting  him  get  some  dis- 
tance ahead,  and  just  as  his  feet  struck  bot- 
tom whispered  to  Simmo  for  his  most  seduc- 
tive gurgle.  At  the  call  the  bull  whirled  and 
plunged  after  us  again  recklessly,  and  I  led 
him  across  to  where  the  younger  bull  was 
still  ranging  up  and  down  the  shore,  calling 
imploringly  to  his  phantom  mate. 

I  expected  a  battle  when  the  two  rivals 
should  meet;  but  they  paid  little  attention 
to  each  other.  The  common  misfortune,  or 


THE  WOODS      <5T 


299 


the  common  misery,  seemed  to  kill  the  fierce 

natural  jealousy  whose  fury  I  had  more  than 

once  been  witness  of.     They  had  lost  all  fear 

by  this  time ;  they  ranged  up  and  down  the  SJffhe  Soundof 

shore,    or   smashed    recklessly   through    the  3&e  3rumjpef 

swamps,  as   the  elusive  smells  and    echoes 

called  them  hither  and  yon  in  their  frantic 

search. 

Far  up  on  the  mountain  side  the  sharp, 
challenging  grunt  of  a  master  bull  broke 
out  of  the  startled  woods  in  one  of  the 
lulls  of  our  exciting  play.    Simmo  heard, 
and  turned  in  the  bow  to  whisper  excit- 
edly: "  Nother  bull !    Fetch-urn  OF  Dev'l 
this  time,  sartin."     Raising  his  horn,  he 
gave  the  long,  rolling  bellow  of  a  cow 
moose.     A  fiercer  trumpet  call  from  the 
mountain  side  answered ;  then  the  sound 
was  lost  in  the  crash-crash  of  the  first 
two  bulls,  as  they  broke  out  upon 
the  shore  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
canoe. 

We  gave  little  heed  now  to 
the  nearer  play ;  our  whole 


attention  was  fixed  on  a  hoarse,  grunting  roar 

•NN-K-) 

^'  ^   u^  '    erruh  •     r-r-r-runh-unh  !  — 


with  a  rattling,  snapping  crash  of  underbrush 
for  an  accompaniment.  The  younger  bull 
heard  it  ;  listened  for  a  moment,  like  a  great 
black  statue  under  the  moonlight;  then  he 
glided  away  into  the  shadows  under  the  bank. 
The  larger  bull  heard  it  and  came  swinging 
along  the  shore,  hurling  a  savage  challenge 
back  on  the  echoing  woods  at  every  stride. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence  up  on  the 
ridge  where  a  moment  before  all  was  fierce 
commotion.  Simmo  was  silent  too  ;  the 
uproar  had  been  appalling,  with  the  sleeping 
lake  below  us,  and  the  vast  forest,  where 
silence  dwells  at  home,  stretching  up  and 
away  on  every  hand  to  the  sky  line.  But 
the  spirit  of  mischief  was  tingling  all  over 
me  as  I  seized  the  horn  and  gave  the  low 
appealing  grunt  that  a  cow  would  have 
uttered  under  the  same  circumstances.  Like 
a  shot  the  answer  was  hurled  back,  and 
down  came  the  great  bull  —  smash,  crack, 
r-r-runh  !  till  he  burst  like  a  tempest  out 


'A   MIGHTY  SPRING  OF   HIS  CROUCHING 
HAUNCHES   FINISHED   THE   WORK" 


on  the  open  shore,  where  the  second  bull 
with  a  challenging  roar  leaped  to  meet  him. 


Simmo  was  begging  me  to  shoot,  shoot, 
telling  me  excitedly  that  "OF  Devi,"  as  he  ^fffite  Sound  of 

called  him,  would  be  more  dangerous  now 
than  ever,  if  I  let  him  get  away ;  but  I  only 
drove  the  canoe  in  closer  to  the  splashing, 
grunting  uproar  among  the  shadows  under 
the  bank. 

There  was  a  terrific  duel  under  way  when 
I  swung  the  canoe  alongside  a  moment  later. 
The  bulls  crashed  together  with  a  shock  to 
break  their  heads.  Mud  and  water  flew 
over  them ;  their  great  antlers  clashed  and 
rang  like  metal  blades  as  they  pushed  and 
tugged,  grunting  like  demons  in  the  fierce 
struggle.  But  the  contest  was  too  one-sided 
to  last  long.  OF  Dev'l  had  smashed  down 
from  the  mountain  in  a  frightful  rage,  and 
with  a  power  that  nothing  could  resist. 
With  a  quick  lunge  he  locked  antlers  in  the 
grip  he  wanted ;  a  twist  of  his  massive  neck 
and  shoulders  forced  the  opposing  head 
aside,  and  a  mighty  spring  of  his  crouching 


9     SCHOOL  OP 

haunches    finished    the   work.     The   second 
304 

JIf  Jfif*  Sound  of  moose  went  over  with  a  plunge  like  a  bolt- 
struck  pine.  As  he  rolled  up  to  his  feet 
again  the  savage  old  bull  jumped  for  him, 
and  drove  the  brow  antlers  into  his  flanks. 
The  next  moment  both  bulls  had  crashed 
away  into  the  woods,  one  swinging  off  in 
giant  strides  through  the  crackling  under- 
brush for  his  life,  the  other  close  behind, 
charging  like  a  battering-ram  into  his  enemy's 
rear,  grunting  like  a  huge  wild  boar  in  his 
rage  and  exultation.  So  the  chase  vanished 
over  the  ridge  into  the  valley  beyond;  and 
silence  stole  back,  like  a  Chinese  empress, 
into  her  disturbed  dominions. 

From  behind  a  great  windfall  on  the  point 
above,  the  first  young  bull  stole  out,  and 
came  halting  and  listening  along  the  shore  to 
the  scene  of  the  conflict.  "  To  the  discreet 
belong  the  spoils "  was  written  in  every 
timorous  step  and  stealthy  movement.  A 
low  grunt  from  my  horn  reassured  him ;  he 
grew  confident ;  now  he  would  find  the 
phantom  mate  that  had  occasioned  so  much 


THE  WOODS      9 

trouble,  and   run  away  with  her  before  the 

conqueror    should    return    from    his    chase. 

He  swung  along  rapidly,  rumbling  the  low 

call  in  his  throat.     Then  up  on   the  ridge  rff/he  Sound  of 

sounded  again  the  crackle  of  brush  and  the  &*e  Ofrumpef 

roar  of  a  challenge.     Ol'  Dev'l  was  coming 

back   for   his    reward.      On  the    instant   all       ...  • 

confidence  vanished  from  the   young  bull's 

attitude.     He  slipped  away  into  the  woods.  . 

There    was    no   sound ;    scarcely   a   definite  \ 

motion.     A  shadow  seemed  to  glide  away    (' 

into  the  darker  shadows.    The  underbrush  J 

closed  softly  behind  it,  and  he  was  gone.     I 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  I  found  my  '}  .  '; 
old  bull  on  the  shore,  a  mile  below;  and 
with  him   was  the  great  cow   that   had 
hunted  me  away  from  her  little  one,  which 
still  followed  her  about  obediently.     I    left 
them  there  undisturbed,  with  a  thought  of 
the   mighty   offspring   that   shall 
some  day  come 
smashing   down 
from  the  moun- 
tain   to    delight 


306 


the  heart  of  camper  or  hunter  and  set  his 
JHJfi  £.  ^/  /  nerves  a-tingle,  when  the  lake  shall  again  be 
visited,  and  the  roar  of  a  bark  trumpet  roll 
over  the  sleeping  lake  and  the  startled  woods. 
Let  them  kill  who  will.  I  have  seen  Umque- 
nawis  the  Mighty  as  he  was  before  fear  came, 
and  am  satisfied. 


||\  VER  my  head  soared  an  eagle  one 
day,  his  broad  vans  set  firm  to  the 
breeze  that  was  doing  his  pleasure 
splendidly,  keeping  him  afloat  in  the  blue, 
just  where  he  wanted  to  be.  At  my  feet 
sprawled  a  turtle,  enjoying  himself  in  his 
own  way.  The  two  together  taught  me  a 
lesson,  which  I  am  glad  now  to  remember. 
The  morning  fishing  was  over.  A  couple 
of  grilse,  beautiful  four-pound  fish,  fresh 
from  the  sea,  lay  snug  together  in  my  fish 
basket  —  enough  for  the  day  and  to  spare. 


309 


SCHOOL  OJF 


310 


Gfedsame 


So  I  gave  up  —  with  an  effort,  I  must  con- 
fess—  the  big  salmon  that  had  plunged 
twice  at  my  Jock  Scott,  and  sat  down  on  a 
stranded  log  to  enjoy  myself,  as  the  wood 
folk  were  doing  all  about  me. 

The  river  rippled  past  with  strong,  even 
sweep.  Below  was  the  deep  pool,  with 
smiles  and  glintings  of  light  on  its  dark 
face,  where  the  salmon,  after  their  long  run 
from  the  sea,  rested  awhile  before  taking  up 
their  positions  in  the  swift  water,  in  which 
they  love  to  lie,  balancing  themselves  against 
the  rush  and  tremor  of  the  current.  Above 
were  the  riffles,  making  white  foam  patches 
of  the  water,  as  if  they  were  having  a  soap- 
bubble  party  all  to  themselves.  The  big 
white  bubbles  would  come  dancing,  swing- 
ing down  to  the  eddies  behind  the  rocks, 
where  a  playful  young  grilse  would  shoot 
up  through  them,  scattering  them 
merrily,  and  adding  a  dozen  more 
bubbles  and  wimples  to  the  running 
troop  as  he  fell  back  into  his 
eddy  with  a  musical  splash  that 


THE  WOODS      H 

set  all  the  warblers  on  the  bank  to  whistling. 
Now  and  then  a  big  white  patch  would  escape 
all  this  and  enter  sedately  the  swift  run  of 
water  along  the  great  ledge  on  the  farther 
shore.  My  big  salmon  lived  there ;  and  just 
as  the  foam  patch  dipped  sharply  into  the 
quiet  water  below,  he  would  swirl  under  it 
and  knock  it  into  smithereens  with  a  blow 
of  his  tail. 

So  the  play  went  on,  while  I  sat  watching 
it  —  watching  the  shadows,  watching  the 
dabs  and  pencilings  of  light  and  the  chan- 
ging reflections,  watching  the  foam  bubbles 
with  special  delight  and  anticipation,  betting 
with  myself  how  far  they  would  run,  whether 
to  the  second  eddy  or  to  the  rim  of  the  pool, 
before  the  salmon  would  smash  them  in  their 
play.  Then  a  shadow  fell  on  the  water,  and 
I  looked  up  to  watch  the  great  eagle  breast- 
ing, balancing,  playing  with  the  mighty  air 
currents  above,  as  the  fishes  played  in  the 
swift  rush  of  water  below. 

He  set  his  wings  square  to  the  wind  at 
first  and  slanted  swiftly  up,  like  a  well  hung 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

kite.     But  that  was  too  fast  for  leisure  hours. 
312 

He  had  only  dropped  down  to  the  pool  in 
idle  curiosity  to  see  what  was  doing.  Then, 
watching  his  wing  tips  keenly  through  my 
y-yr  glass,  I  saw  the  quills  turn  ever  so  slightly, 
so  as  to  spill  the  wind  from  their  underside, 
as  a  skipper  slacks  sheets  to  deaden  his 
boat's  headway,  and  the  wonderful  upward 
spiral  flight  began. 

Just  how  he  does  it  only  the  eagle  himself 
knows  ;  and  with  him  it  is  largely  a  matter 
of  slow  learning.  The  young  birds  make  a 
sad  bungle  of  it  when  they  try  it  for  the  first 
time,  following  the  mother  eagle,  who  swings 
just  above  and  in  front  of  them  to  show 
them  how  it  is  done. 

Over  me  sweeps  my  eagle  in  slow,  majestic 
circles ;  ever  returning  upon  his  course,  yet 
ever  higher  than  his  last  wheel,  like  a  life 
with  a  great  purpose  in  it;  sliding  evenly 
upward  on  the  wind's  endless  stairway  as  iv 
slips  from  under  him.  Without  hurry,  with- 
out exertion — just  a  twist  of  his  wide-set 
wing  quills,  so  slight  that  my  eye  can  no 


THE  WOODS      & 

longer  notice  it  —  he  swings  upward  ;  while 
the  earth   spreads  wider  and  wider   below 


Vv 


him,  and  rivers  flash  in  the  sun,  like  silver   ^    ~v    , 

f  ZneG/aasome 

ribbons,  across  the  green  forest  carpet  that 

spreads  away  over  mountain  and  valley  to 
the  farthest  horizon. 

Smaller  and  smaller  grow  the  circles  now, 
till  the  vast  spiral  reaches  its  apex,  and  he 
hangs  there  in  the  air,  looking  with  quiet, 
kindling  eyes  over  Isaiah's  royal  land  of 
"  farnesses,"  like  a  tiny  humming  bird  poised 
over  the  earth's  great  flower  cup.  So  high 
is  he  that  one  must  think  he  glances  over 
the  brim  of  things,  and  sees  our  earth  as  a 
great  bubble  floating  in  the  blue  ether,  with 
nothing  whatever  below  it  and  only  himself 
above.  And  there  he  stays,  floating,  balan- 
cing, swaying  in  the  purring  currents  of 
air  that  hold  him  fast  in  their  soft  arms 
and  brush  his  great  wings  tenderly  with  a 
caress  that  never  grows  weary,  like  a  great, 
strong  mother  holding  her  little  child. 

He  had  fed ;  he  had  drunk  to  the  full  from 
a  mountain  spring.     Now  he  rested  over  the 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

world  that  nourished  him  and  his  little  ones, 
3  14 

with  his  keen  eyes  growing  sleepy,  and  never 

a  thought  of  harm  to  himself  or  any  crea- 
ture within  his  breast.  For  that  is  a  splen- 
did thing  about  all  great  creatures,  even 

^^ 

the  fiercest  of  them  :  they  are  never  cruel. 
They  take  only  what  they  must  to  supply 
their  necessities.  When  their  wants  are 
satisfied  there  is  truce  which  they  never 
break.  They  live  at  peace  with  all  things, 
small  and  great,  and,  in  their  dumb  uncon- 
scious way,  answer  to  the  deep  harmony  of 
the  world  which  underlies  all  its  superficial 
discords,  as  the  music  of  the  sea  is  never 
heard  till  one  moves  far  away  from  the 
uproar  along  the  shore. 

The  little  wild  things  all  know  this  per- 
fectly. When  an  eagle,  or  any  other  bird 
or  beast  of  prey,  is  not  hunting — which  is 
nine  tenths  of  the  time  —  the  timidest  and 
most  defenseless  creature  has  no  fear  of 
him  whatever. 

My  eyes  grow  weary,  at  last,  watching  the 
noble  bird,  so  small  a  speck  on  the  infinite 


THE  WOODS      * 

blue   background ;   and  they  blur  suddenly, 
thinking  of  the  joy  of  his  great  free  life,  and 


the  sadness  of  our  unnatural  humanity.  ^     ~r    , 

A    T       , '    ,  ZneG/adsome 

As   I  seek  the  pool  again,  and  rest  my 

eyes  on  the  soft,  glimmering,  color-washed 
surface,  there  is  a  stir  in  the  still  water  at 
my  feet.  Life  is  here  too  ;  and  joy  belongs, 
not  only  to  the  heavens,  but  to  the  earth  as 
well.  A  long  twig  from  a  fallen  tree  had 
thrust  itself  deep  into  the  stream  ;  its  outer 
end  swayed,  and  rose  and  fell  rhythmically 
in  the  current.  While  I  was  watching  the 
eagle  a  little  turtle  found  the  twig  and  laid 
himself  across  it,  one  flipper  clinched  into 
a  knot  to  hold  him  steady,  the  others  hang- 
ing listlessly  and  swinging  to  keep  the  bal- 
ance perfect  as  he  teetered  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  with  the  great,  purring  river  to 
do  his  work  for  him  and  join  his  silent  play. 
And  there  he  lay  for  half  the  morning  — 
as  long  as  I  stayed  to  watch  him — swing- 
ing, swaying,  rising,  falling,  glad  of  his  little 
life,  which  was  yet  big  enough  to  know 
pleasure,  glad  of  light  and  motion,  and, 


SCHOOL  OF 


316 


Gladsome 


for  aught  I  know,  glad  of  a  music  in  the 
stream  below,  the  faint  echo  of  the  rustling, 
rippling,  fluting  music  that  filled  the  air  and 
the  woods  all  around  me. 

Life  is  a  glad  thing  for  the  wood  folk  ; 
that  is  what  the  great  eagle  was  saying,  far 
overhead ;  that  is  what  the  little  turtle  said, 
swaying  up  and  down  on  his  twig  at  my 
feet;  that  is  what  every  singing  bird  and 
leaping  salmon  said,  and  every  piping  frog 
along  the  shore,  and  every  insect  buzzing 
about  my  ears  in  the  warm  sunshine.  I 
remembered  suddenly  a  curious  fact,  which 
till  then  had  never  come  home  to  me  with 
its  true  significance :  in  all  my  years  of 
watching  the  wild  things  —  watching,  not 
to  record,  or  to  make  a  story,  but  only  to 
see  and  understand  for  myself  just  what 
they  were  doing,  and  what  they  thought  and 
felt  —  I  had  never  yet  met  an  unhappy  bird 
or  animal.  Nor  have  I  ever  met  one,  before 
or  since,  in  whom  the  dominant  note  was 
not  gladness  of  living.  I  have  met  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  beasts  and  birds  at  close 


THE  WOODS      9 

quarters  ;  some  whose  whole  nature  seemed 
bent  into  a  question  mark,  like  certain  jays 


and  turkeys  and  deer,  and  one  moose  that 
I  could  not  keep  away  from  my  camp  for  "jyfe 
any  length  of  time ;  some  fond,  like  a  cer- 
tain big  green  frog  that  attached  himself 
to  me  with  an  affection  that  denied  his  cold 
blood ;  some  foolish,  like  the  fawn  that 
would  never  follow  his  leader ;  some  morose 
and  ugly,  like  the  big  bull  moose  that  first 
watched  and  then  tried  twice  to  kill  me; 
but  never  a  one,  great  or  small,  among  them 
all,  to  whom  life  did  not  seem  to  offer  a 
brimming  cup,  and  who  did  not,  even  in 
times  of  danger  and  want,  rejoice  in  his 
powers  and  live  gladly,  with  an  utter  absence 
of  that  worry  and  anxiety  which  make  wreck 
of  our  human  life. 

I  stood  by  a  runway  in  the  big  woods  one 
morning,  watching  for  a  deer  that  dogs  were 
driving.  From  the  lake  I  had  listened  to 
the  whole  story, —  the  first  eager,  sniffing 
yelps,  the  sharp,  clear  note  that  meant  a 
fresh  track,  and  then  the  deep-lunged,  savage 


9     SCHOOL  OF 


dfie 
G/adsome 


chorus  sweeping  up  the  ridge,  which  told 
of  a  deer  afoot  and  running  for  his  life. 
I  knew  something  of  the  deer's  habits  in 
that  region ;  knew  also  that  the  hunters 
were  over  the  ridge,  watching  by  a  lake  that 
the  deer  had  deserted  weeks  ago ;  and  so  I 
headed  for  a  favorite  runway,  to  let  the  deer 
slip  by  me  and  to  club  the  dogs  away  as 
they  came  on.  For  deer  hounding  and  deer 
coursing  are  detestable  sports,  whether  the 
law  allow  them  or  not,  and  whether  the  dogs 
be  mongrel  curs  that  follow  their  noses 
or  imported  greyhounds  with  a  pedigree 
that  run  by  sight,  followed  by  a  field  of 
thoroughbreds. 

On  the  way  to  the  runway  a  curious 
thing  happened.  A  big  hawk  swooped  into 
some  berry  bushes  ahead  of  me  with  strong, 
even  slant,  and  rose  in  a  moment  with  the 
unmistakable  air  of  disappointment  showing 
all  over  him,  from  beak  to  tail  tip.  I  stole 
up  to  the  bushes  cautiously  to  find  out  what 
he  was  after,  and  to  match  my  eyes  with 
his.  There  I  saw,  first  one,  then  five  or  six 


THE  WOODS      ® 

well-grown  young  partridges  crouched  in 
their  hiding  places  among  the  brown  leaves, 
rejoicing  apparently  in  the  wonderful  color- 
ing which  Nature  gave  them,  and  in  their 
own  power,  learned  from  their  mother,  to  lie  .^-•^  ^^ 
still  and  so  be  safe  till  danger  passed.  There 
was  no  fear  manifest  whatever;  no  shadow 
of  anxiety  for  any  foolish  youngster  who 
might  turn  his  head  and  so  let  the  hawk  see 
him.  In  a  moment  they  were  all  gliding 
away  with  soft,  inquisitive  kwit-kwits,  turn- 
ing their  heads  to  eye  me  curiously,  and 
anon  picking  up  the  dried  berries  that  lay 
about  plentifully.  Among  them  all  there 
was  no  trace  of  a  thought  for  the  hawk  that 
had  just  swooped.  And  why  should  there 
be  ?  Had  they  not  just  fooled  him  perfectly, 
and  were  not  their  eyes  as  keen  to  do  it 
again  when  the  need  should  come  ? 

I  was  thinking  about  it,  wondering  at  this 
strange  kind  of  fear  that  is  merely  watchful, 
with  no  trace  of  our  terror  or  anxiety  for  the 
future  in  it,  when  twigs  began  to  crackle  and  a 
big  buck  came  bounding  down  the  runway. 


320 


Gfadso/ne 


^     SCHOOL  OF 

Near  me  he  stopped  and  turned  to  listen, 
shaking  his  antlers  indignantly,  and  stamp- 
ing his  fore  foot  hard  at  such  an  uproar  in  his 
quiet  woods.  He  trotted  past  me,  his  great 
muscles  working  like  well  oiled  machinery 
under  his  velvet  coat ;  then,  instead  of  keep- 
ing on  to  water,  he  leaped  over  a  windfall  — 
a  magnificent  exhibition  of  power,  taken  as 
gracefully  as  if  he  were  but  playing  —  and 
dashed  away  through  the  swamp,  to  kill  the 
scent  of  his  flying  feet. 

An  hour  or  two  later  I  saw  him  enter  the 
lake  quietly  from  another  runway  and  swim 
across  with  deep,  powerful  strokes.  On  the 
farther  shore  he  stopped  a  moment  to  shake 
himself  and  to  listen  to  the  far-away 
cry  of  the  hounds.  He  had  run  as 
much  as  he  wished,  to  stretch  his  big 
muscles,  and  was  indisposed  now  to 
run  farther  and  tire  himself,  when  he 
could  so  easily  get  rid  of  the  noisy 
pack.  But  there  was  no 
terror  in  the  shake  of  his 
antlers,  nor  in  the  angry 


THE  WOODS      * 

stamp  of  his  fore  foot,  and  no  sense  save  that 
of  conscious  power  and  ability  to  take  care  of 
himself  in  the  mighty  bounds  that  lifted  him 
like  a  bird  over  the  windfalls  into  the  shelter 
and  silence  of  the  big  woods. 

At  times,  I  know,  it  happens  differently, 
when  a  deer  is  fairly  run  down  and  killed 
by  dogs  or  wolves ;  but  though  I  have  seen 
them  dog-driven  many  times,  and  once  when 
the  great  gray  timber  wolves  were  running 
their  trail,  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  deer  lose 
his  perfect  confidence  in  himself,  and  his 
splendid  sense  of  superiority  over  those  that 
follow  him.  Once,  in  deep  snow,  I  saved  a 
deer's  life  just  as  the  dogs  were  closing  in 
on  him  ;  but  up  to  the  moment  when  he 
gave  his  last  bound  and  laid  his  head  down 
quietly  on  the  crust  to  rest,  I  saw  no  evi- 
dence whatever  of  the  wild  terrors  and 
frightful  excitement  that  we  have  attributed 
to  driven  creatures. 

The  same  is  true  of  foxes,  and  even  of 
rabbits.  The  weak  and  foolish  die  young, 
under  the  talon  or  paw  of  stronger  creatures. 


The  rest  have  escaped  so  often,  played  and 
run  so   systematically  till   every  nerve   and 


muscle  is  trained  to  its  perfect  work,  that 
they  seem  to  have  no  thought  whatever  that 
the  ]ast  Danger  may  have  its  triumph. 

Watch  the  dogs  yonder,  driving  a  fox 
through  the  winter  woods.  Their  feet,  cut 
by  briers  and  crust,  leave  red  trails  over  the 
snow;  their  tails  have  all  bloody  stumps, 
where  the  ends  have  been  whipped  off  in 
frantic  wagging.  You  cannot  call,  you  can 
scarcely  club  them  from  the  trail.  They 
seem  half  crazy,  half  hypnotized  by  the  scent 
in  their  noses.  Their  wild  cry,  especially  if 
you  be  near  them,  is  almost  painful  in  its  inten- 
sity as  they  run  blindly  through  the  woods. 
And  it  makes  no  difference  to  them,  appar- 
ently, whether  they  get  their  fox  or  not.  If 
he  is  shot  before  them,  they  sniff  the  body, 
wondering  for  a  moment ;  then  they  roll  in 
the  snow  and  go  off  to  find  another  trail.  If 
the  fox  runs  all  day,  as  usual,  they  follow  till 
footsore  and  weary  ;  then  sleep  awhile,  and 
come  limping  home  in  the  morning. 


TROTS  TO  THE  BROOK  AND  JUMPS 
FROM  STONE  TO  STONE" 


Now  cut  ahead  of  the  dogs  to  the  runway 
and  watch  for  the  fox.     Here  is  the  hunted 


creature.     He  comes  loping  along,  light  as    ^     ~r    , 

r    .u      u-    u     Li   V  ffieG/adsome 

a  wind-blown  feather,  his  brush  floating  out 

like  a  great  plume  behind  him.  He  stops 
to  listen  to  his  heavy-footed  pursuers,  capers 
a  bit  in  self-satisfaction,  chases  his  tail  if  he 
is  a  young  fox,  makes  a  crisscross  of  tracks, 
trots  to  the  brook  and  jumps  from  stone  to 
stone  ;  then  he  makes  his  way  thoughtfully 
over  dry  places,  which  hold  no  scent,  to  the 
top  of  the  ridge,  where  he  can  locate  the 
danger  perfectly,  and  curls  himself  up  on  a 
warm  rock  and  takes  a  nap.  When  the  cry 
comes  too  near  he  slips  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ridge,  where  the  breeze  seems  to 
blow  him  away  to  the  next  hill. 

There  are  exceptions  here  too  ;  exceptions 
that  only  prove  the  great  rule  of  gladness  in 
animal  life,  even  when  we  would  expect  wild 
terrors.  Of  scores  of  foxes  that  have  passed 
under  my  eyes,  with  a  savage  hunting  cry 
behind  them,  I  have  never  seen  but  one  that 
did  not  give  the  impression  of  getting  far 


W     SCffOOL  OF 

,  more  fun  out  of  it  than  the  dogs  that  were 
driving  him.  And  that  is  why  he  so  rarely 
takes  to  earth,  where  he  could  so  easily  and 
simply  escape  it  all,  if  he  chose.  When  the 
weather  is  fine  he  keeps  to  his  legs  all  day ; 
but  when  the  going  is  heavy,  or  his  tail  gets 
wet  in  mushy  snow,  he  runs  awhile  to  stretch 
his  muscles,  then  slips  into  a  den  and  lies 
down  in  peace.  Let  dogs  bark ;  the  ground 
is  frozen,  and  they  cannot  scratch  him  out. 
I  have  written  these  three  things,  of  par- 
tridge and  deer  and  fox  —  while  twenty  others 
come  bubbling  up  to  remembrance  that  one 
need  not  write  —  simply  to  suggest  the  great 
fact,  so  evident  among  all  wild  creatures, — 
from  the  tiniest  warbler,  lifting  his  sweet  song 
to  the  sunrise  amid  a  hundred  enemies,  to 
the  great  eagle,  resting  safe  in  air  a  thousand 
feet  above  the  highest  mountain  peak ;  and 
from  the  little  wood  mouse,  pushing  his  snow 
tunnels  bravely  under  the  very  feet  of  hungry 
fox  and  wild-cat,  to  the  great  moose,  breast- 
ing down  a  birch  tree  to  feed  on  its  top  when 
maple  and  wicopy  twigs  are  buried  deep 


THE  WOODS      0 

under  the  northern  snows,  —  that  life  is  a 
glad  thing  to  Nature's  children,  so  glad  that 
cold  cannot  chill,  nor  danger  overwhelm,  nor 
even  hunger  deaden  its  gladness.  I  have 
seen  deer,  gaunt  as  pictures  from  an  Indian 
famine  district,  so  poor  that  all  their  ribs 
showed  like  barrel  hoops  across  their  col- 
lapsed sides ;  yet  the  yearlings  played  to- 
gether as  they  wandered  in  their  search  for 
food  through  the  bare,  hungry  woods.  And 
I  have  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  desolate 
northern  barrens  when  the  icy  blasts  roared 
over  them  and  all  comfort  seemed  buried 
so  deep  that  only  the  advice  of  Job's  wife 
seemed  pertinent:  to  "curse  God  and  die." 
And  lo !  in  the  midst  of  blasphemy,  the 
flutter  of  tiny  wings,  light  and  laughter  of 
little  bright  eyes,  chatter  of  chickadees  call- 
ing each  other  cheerily  as  they  hunted  the 
ice-bound  twigs  over  and  over  for  the  morsel 
that  Nature  had  hidden  there,  somewhere 
in  the  fat  autumn  days ;  and  then  one  clear, 
sweet  love  note,  as  if  an  angel  had  blown  a 
little  flute,  tinkling  over  the  bleak  desolation 


327 


ffie  G/actsome 


TV. 


&     SCHOOL  OF 

to  tell  me  that  spring  was  coming,  and  that 
even  here,  meanwhile,*  life  was  well  worth 
the  living. 

The  fact  is,  Nature  takes  care  of  her  crea- 
Gfadsome       tures  SQ  well  —  gives  them  £oocj  Witn0ut  care, 

^^^^p5»l^F 

soft  colors  to  hide,  and  nimble  legs  to  run 
away  with  —  that,  so  far  as  I  have  ever  ob- 
served, they  seldom  have  a  thought  in  their 
heads  for  anything  but  the  plain  comfort 
and  gladness  of  living. 

It  is  only  when  one  looks  at  the  animal 
from  above,  studies  him  psychologically  for 
a  moment,  and  remembers  what  wonderful 
provision  Nature  has  made  to  keep  him  from 
all  the  evils  of  anxious  forethought,  that  one 
can  understand  this  gladness. 

In  the  first  place,  he  has  no  such  pains  as 
we  are  accustomed  to  find  in  ourselves  and 
sympathize  with  in  our  neighbors.  Three 
fourths,  at  least,  of  all  our  pain  is  mental ;  is 
born  of  an  overwrought  nervous  organiza- 
tion, or  imagination.  If  our  pains  were 
only  those  that  actually  exist  in  our  legs 

or  backs,  we 


THE  WOODS      ® 

could  worry  along  very  well  to  a  good  old 
age,  as  the  bears  and  squirrels  do.  For  the 
animal  has  no  great  mentality,  certainly 
not  enough  to  triple  his  pains  thereby,  and 
no  imagination  whatever  to  bother  him.  ^4-^ v 
Your  Christian-Science  friend  would  find 
him  a  slippery  subject,  smooth  and  difficult 
as  the  dome  of  the  Statehouse  to  get  a  grip 
upon.  When  he  is  sick  he  knows  it,  and 
goes  to  sleep  sensibly;  when  he  is  well  he 
needs  no  faith  to  assure  him  of  the  fact.  He 
has  his  pains,  to  be  sure,  but  they  are  only 
those  in  his  legs  and  back ;  and  even  here 
the  nervous  organization  is  much  coarser 
than  ours,  and  the  pain  less  severe.  He  has 
also  a  most  excellent  and  wholesome  disposi- 
tion to  make  as  little,  not  as  much,  of  his 
pains  as  possible. 

I  have  noticed  a  score  of  times  in  han- 
dling wounded  animals  that,  when  once  I 
have  won  their  confidence  so  that  they 
have  no  fear  of  my  hurting  them  willfully, 
they  let  me  bind  up  their  wounds  and  twist 
the  broken  bones  into  place,  and  even  cut 


330 


Gladsome 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

away  the  flesh ;  and  they  show  almost  no 
evidence  of  suffering.  That  their  pain  is 
very  slight  compared  with  ours  is  absolutely 
certain. 

I  have  sometimes  found  animals  in  the 
woods,  bruised,  wounded,  bleeding,  from 
some  of  the  savage  battles  that  they  wage 
among  themselves  in  the  mating  season. 
The  first  thought,  naturally,  is  how  keenly 
they  must  suffer  as  the  ugly  wounds  grow 
cold.  Now  comes  Nature,  the  wise  physician. 
In  ten  minutes  she  has  them  well  in  hand. 
They  sink  into  a  dozy,  dreamy  slumber,  as 
free  from  pain  or  care  as  an  opium  smoker. 
And  there  they  stay,  for  hours  or  days,  under 
the  soft  anaesthetic  until  ready  to  range  the 
woods  for  food  again,  or  till  death  comes 
gently  and  puts  them  to  sleep. 

I  have  watched  animals  stricken  sore  by 
a  bullet,  feeding  or  resting  quietly;  have 
noted  little  trout  with  half  their  jaws  torn 
away  rising  freely  to  the  same  fly  that 
injured  them ;  have  watched  a  muskrat  cut- 
ting his  own  leg  off  with  his  teeth  to  free 


THE  WOODS      * 

himself  from  the  trap  that  held  him  (all 
unwillingly,  Gentle  Reader ;  for  I  hate  such 
things,  as  you  do),  but  I  have  never  yet  seen 
an  animal  that  seemed  to  suffer  a  hundredth 
part  of  the  pain  that  an  ordinary  man  would 
suffer  under  the  same  circumstances. 

Children  suffer  far  less  than  their  elders 
with  the  same  disease,  and  savage  races 
less  than  civilized  ones  ;  all  of  which  points 
far  down  to  the  animal  that,  with  none 
of  our  mentality  or  imagination  or  tense- 
strung  nervous  organization,  escapes  largely 
our  aches  and  pains.  This  is  only  one 
more  of  Nature's  wise  ways,  in  withhold- 
ing pain  mostly  from  those  least  able  to 
endure  it. 

Of  purely  mental  sufferings  the  animal  has 
but  one,  the  grief  which  comes  from  loss  of 
the  young  or  the  mate.  In  this  we  have 
read  only  of  the  exceptional  cases,  —  the 
rarely  exceptional,  —  tinctured  also  with  the 
inevitable  human  imagination,  and  so  have 
come  to  accept  grossly  exaggerated  concep- 
tions of  animal  grief. 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

A  mother  bird's  nest  is  destroyed.  The 
storm  beats  it  down ;  or  the  black  snake  lays 
his  coils  around  it;  or  the  small  boy  robs 
it  thoughtlessly ;  or  the  professional  egg-col- 
lector, whose  name  and  whose  business  be 
anathema,  puts  it  into  his  box  of  abomina- 
tions. The  mother  bird  haunts  the  spot  a 
few  hours,  —  rarely  longer  than  that,  —  then 
glides  away  into  deeper  solitudes.  In  a  few 
days  she  has  another  nest,  and  is  brooding 
eggs  more  wisely  hidden.  This  is  the  great 
rule,  not  the  exception,  of  the  gladsome  bird 
life.  Happy  for  them  and  for  us  that  it  is 
so;  else,  instead  of  the  glorious  morning 
chorus,  the  woods  would  be  filled  always 
with  lamentations. 

When  the  young  birds  or  animals  are 
taken  away,  or  killed  by  hungry  prowlers, 
the  mother's  grief  endures  a  little  longer. 
But  even  here  Nature  is  kind.  The  mother 
love  for  helpless  little  ones,  which  makes  the 
summer  wilderness  such  a  wonderful  place 
to  open  one's  eyes  in,  is  but  a  temporary 
instinct.  At  best  it  endures  but  a  few  weeks, 


THE  WOODS      « 

after  which  the  little  ones  go  away  to  take 
care  of  themselves,  and  the  mother  lets  them 
go  gladly,  thinking  that  now  she  can  lay  on 
fat  for  herself  against  the  cold  winter. 

If  the  time  be  yet  seasonable  when  acci- 
dent befalls,  the  mother  wastes  but  few 
hours  in  useless  mourning.  She  makes  a 
new  nest,  or  hollows  out  a  better  den,  or 
drops  her  young  in  deeper  seclusion,  and 
forgets  the  loss,  speedily  and  absolutely,  in 
rearing  and  teaching  the  new  brood, — hurry- 
ing the  process  and  taking  less  care,  because 
the  time  is  short.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  — 
you  can  see  it  for  yourself  any  late  summer 
in  the  woods — that  these  late-coming  off- 
spring are  less  cared  for  than  the  earlier. 
The  mother  must  have  a  certain  period  of 
leisure  for  herself  to  get  ready  for  winter, 
and  she  takes  it,  usually,  whether  the  young 
are  fully  prepared  for  life  or  not  It  is  from 
these  second  broods  largely  that  birds  and 
beasts  of  prey  keep  themselves 
alive  during  times  of 
hunger  and  scarcity. 


333 


ffieG/adsome 


SCHOOL  OF 


334 


They  are  less  carefully  taught,  and  so  are 
caught  more  easily.  This  again  is  not  the 
exception,  but  the  great  rule  of  animal  life. 

And  this  is  another  of  Mother  Nature's 
wise  ways.  She  must  care  for  the  deer  and 
partridge;  but  she  must  also  remember  the 
owl  and  the  panther  that  cry  out  to  her  in 
their  hunger.  And  how  could  she  accom- 
plish that  miracle  of  contradiction  without 
exciting  our  hate  and  utter  abhorrence,  if 
she  gave  to  her  wild  creatures  the  human 
griefs  and  pains  with  which  they  are  so  often 
endowed  by  our  sensitive  imagination? 

Of  these  small  griefs  and  pains,  such  as 
they  are,  the  mothers  alone  are  the  inheritors. 
The  male  birds  and  animals,  almost  without 
exception  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  have  no 
griefs,  but  rather  welcome  the  loss  of  the 
young.  This  is  partly  because  it  leaves  them 
free  to  shift  and  feed  for  themselves  —  your 
male  animal  is  essentially  a  selfish  and  happy 
creature  —  and  partly  because  it  opens  to 
them  anew  the  joys  of  winning  their  mates 

over  again. 


THE  WOODS      0 

The  second  great  reason  for  the  gladness 
of  animal  life  is  that  the  animal  has  no  fears. 
The  widespread  animal  fear,  which  is  indeed 
the  salvation  of  all  the  little  wild  things,  is 
so  utterly  different  from  our  "  faithless  fears 
and  worldly  anxieties  "  that  another  name  — 
watchfulness,  perhaps,  or  timidity,  or  distrust 
—  should  be  given  to  it  in  strict  truth. 

This  animal  fear,  be  it  remembered,  is  not 
so  much  an  instinctive  thing  as  a  plain  mat- 
ter of  teaching.  Indeed,  inquisitiveness  is  a 
much  stronger  trait  of  all  animals  than  fear. 
The  world  is  so  full  of  things  the  animal 
does  not  understand  that  he  is  always  agog 
to  find  out  a  little  more. 

I  was  sitting  on  a  stump  one  day  in 
the  woods,  plucking  some  partridges  for  my 
dinner.  A  slight  motion  in  the  underbrush 
roused  me  from  my  absorption;  and  there 
was  a  big  bull  moose,  half  hid  in  the  dwarf 
spruces,  watching  me  and  the  fluttering 
feathers,  with  wonder  and  intense  curiosity 
written  all  over  his  ugly  black  face.  And  I 
have  caught  bear  and  deer  and  crows  and 


¥     SCHOOL  OJF 

squirrels  and  little  wood  warblers  at  the  same 
inquisitive  game,  again  and  again.      If  you 


sit  down  in  the  woods  anywhere,  and  do  any 
queer  or  simple  thing  you  will,  the  time  will 
not  ke  }ong  before  you  find  shy  bright  eyes, 
all  round  with  wonder,  watching  you  with 
delicious  little  waverings  between  the  timidity 
which  urges  them  away  and  the  curiosity 
which  always  brings  them  back  again,  if  you 
but  know  how  to  keep  still  and  disguise  your 
interest. 

If  you  find  a  young  bird  or  animal,  in  nest 
or  den,  young  enough  so  that  the  mother's 
example  has  not  yet  produced  its  effect,  you 
will  probably  note  only  two  instincts.  The 
first  and  greatest  instinct,  that  of  obedience, 
is  not  for  you  to  command ;  though  you  may 
get  some  strong  hints  of  it,  if  you  approach 
silently  and  utter  some  low,  cautious  sound 
in  imitation  of  the  mother  creature.  The 
two  which  you  may  surely  find  are:  the 
instinct  to  eat,  and  the  instinct  to  lie  still 
and  let  nature's  coloring  do  its  good  work 
of  hiding.  (There  is  another  reason  for 


THE  WOODS      0 

quietness:  a  bird  —  and,  to  a  less  extent,  an 
animal  — gives  forth  no  scent  when  he  is  still 


and  his  pores  are  closed.     He  lies  quiet  to    ~*>    ^r    , 

.  ,  , .    SReG/adsome 

escape  the  nose  as  well  as  the  eyes  ot  his 

enemy.  That,  however,  is  another  matter.) 
But  you  will  find  no  fear  there.  The  little 
thing  will  feed  from  your  hand  as  readily 
as  from  its  mother,  if  you  catch  him  soon 
enough. 

Afterwards  come  the  lessons  of  watchful- 
ness and  timidity,  which  we  have  called  fear, 
—  to  sort  the  sounds  and  sights  and  smells 
of  the  woods,  and  to  act  accordingly;  now 
to  lie  still,  and  now  to  bristle  your 
pinfeathers,  so  as  to  look  big  and 
scare  an  intruder;  now  to  hiss,  or 
growl,  or  scratch,  or  cry  out  for  your    -j 
mother;   and  now,  at  last,  to  dive 
for  cover  or  take  to  your  legs  in  a  straight-  ./  ^ 
away  run,  —  all  of   which   are   learned,  not 
by  instinct,  but  by  teaching  and  example. 

And  these  are  not  fears  at  all,  in  our  sense 
of  the  word,  but  rules  of  conduct;  as  a  car 
horse  stops  when  the  bell  jingles ;  as  a  man 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

~  turns  to  the  right,  because  he  has  learned  to 
do  so,  or  bends  forward  in  running,  or  jumps 
forward  when  he  hears  an  unknown  noise 
close  behind  him. 

yv**  To  make  a  rough  and  of  course  inadequate 
generalization,  all  our  human  fears  arise  from 
three  great  sources  :  the  thought  of  pain  or 
bodily  harm,  the  thought  of  future  calamity, 
and  the  thought  of  death.  Now  Nature  in 
mercy  has  kept  all  these  things  from  the  wild 
creatures,  who  have  no  way  of  making  pro- 
vision against  them,  nor  any  capacity  for  faith, 
by  which  alone  such  fears  are  overcome. 

First,  in  the  matter  of  bodily  harm  or 
pain  :  The  animal  has  lived  a  natural  life 
and,  as  a  rule,  knows  no  pain  whatever.  He 
likewise  has  never  been  harmed  by  any  crea- 
ture—  except  perhaps  an  occasional  nip  by 
his  mother,  to  teach  him  obedience.  So  he 
runs  or  flies  through  the  big  woods  without 
any  thought  of  the  pains  that  he  has  never 
felt  and  does  not  know. 

Neither  does  any  thought  of  future 
calamity  bother  his  little  head,  for  he  knows 


THE  WOODS      *9 

no  calamity  and  no  future.     I  am  not  speak-     --„ 

ing  now  of  what  we  know,  or  think  we  know, 

concerning    the    animal's  future;    but  only  jfie (?/aofsome 

of  what  he  knows,  and  what  he  knows  he 
knows.  With  the  exception  of  the  few  wild 
creatures  that  lay  up  stores  for  winter  —  and 
they  are  the  happiest  —  he  lives  wholly  in 
the  present.  He  feels  well;  his  eyes  are 
keen  and  his  muscles  ready;  he  has  enough, 
or  expects  enough  at  the  next  turn  of  the 
trail.  And  that  is  his  wisdom  of  experience. 
As  for  death,  that  is  forever  out  of  the 
animal's  thinking.  Not  one  in  a  thousand 
creatures  ever  sees  death  —  except,  of  course, 
the  insects  or  other  wild  things  that  they 
eat,  and  these  are  not  death  but  good  food, 
as  we  regard  a  beefsteak.  If  they  do  see  it, 
they  pass  it  by  suspiciously,  like  a  tent,  or  a 
canoe,  or  any  other  thing  which  they  do  not 
understand,  and  which  they  have  not  been 
taught  by  their  mothers  how  to  meet. 
Scores  of  times  I  have  watched  birds  and 
animals  by  their  own  dead  mates  or  little  -^ 
ones.  Until  the  thing  grows  cold  they  treat  f  1 


¥     SCHOOL  OF 

it  as  if  it  were  sleeping.     Then  they  grow 
suspicious,  look  at  the  body  strangely,  sniff 


it  at  a  distance,  never  touching  it  with  their 
noses.     They  glide  away  at  last,  wondering 
y>VCo   wnv   ^  is  so  cold,  why  it  does   not  move 

a^£M& 

or  come  when  it  is  called.  Then,  circling 
through  the  underbrush,  you  will  hear  them 
calling  and  searching  elsewhere  for  the  little 
one  that  they  have  just  left. 

So  far  as  I  know,  the  ants,  some  tribes  of 
which  bury  their  dead,  and  the  bees,  which 
kill  their  drones  at  the  proper  season,  are 
the  only  possible  exception  to  this  general 
rule  of  animal  life.  And  these  little  creatures 
are  too  unknown,  too  mysterious,  too  contra- 
dictory a  mixture  of  dense  stupidity  and  pro- 
found wisdom  to  allow  a  positive  theory  as 
to  how  clearly  they  think,  how  blindly  they 
are  instinctive,  or  how  far  they  are  con- 
scious of  the  meaning  of  what  they  do  daily 
all  their  lives. 

Bodily  harm,  future  calamity,  death, — 
these  three  things  can  never  enter  con- 
sciously into  the  animal's  head  ;  and  there  is 


THE  WOODS      ® 

nothing  in  his  experience  to  clothe  the  last 
great  enemy,  or  friend,  with  any  meaning. 


Therefore   are    they  glad,  being   mercifully 
delivered  from  the  bondage  of  our  fears. 


I  am  still  sitting  on  the  old  log  by  the 
salmon  pool,  with  the  great  river  purring  by 
and  the  white  foam  patches  floating  down 
from  the  riffles.  A  second  little  turtle  has 
joined  the  first  on  his  teeter  board ;  they  are 
swinging  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the 
kindly  current  together.  The  river  is  full  of 
insect  life  below  them ;  they  will  eat  when 
they  get  ready.  Meanwhile  they  swing  and 
enjoy  their  little  life.  Far  over  the  moun- 
tain soars  the  great  eagle,  resting  on  the 
winds.  The  earth  has  food  and  drink  below; 
he  will  come  down  when  he  is  hungry. 
Meanwhile  he  looks  down  over  the  brim  of 
things  and  is  satisfied.  The  birds  have  not 
yet  hushed  their  morning  song  in  the  woods 
behind  me ;  too  happy  to  eat,  they  must  sing 
a  little  longer.  Where  the  pool  dimples 
and  rolls  lazily  the  salmon  are  leaping  in 


their  strength  ;  frogs  pipe  and  blink  on  the 
lily  pads  riding  at  anchor;   and  over  their 


heads  in  the  flood  of  sunshine  buzz  the 
myriads  of  little  things  that  cannot  be  still 
£or  g]ac[ness  Nature  above  and  below  tin- 
gles with  the  joy  of  mere  living  —  a  joy  that 
bubbles  over,  like  a  spring,  so  that  all  who 
will,  even  of  the  race  of  men  who  have  lost 
or  forgotten  their  birthright,  may  come  back 
and  drink  of  its  abundance  and  be  satisfied. 


343 


^ii«iiiiiiimDiiiiuinMniii\iiiiiiit)ii)iiiii/iiii)iMitiiiiiiiii/iiiiMiii(///ii/iiMiiii/ii//iMii/inMiiiiMiiiiiOiiiii/r(mTiiTiiiMMif 

I  wow  me  Animals  Die 

giimmmmniiiMiti H 


HE  scream  of  an  eagle  —  a  rare  sound 
in  the  summer  wilderness  —  brought 
me  hurrying  out  of  my  commoosie  to  know 
what  had  caused  Cheplahgan  to  break  the 
silence.  He  was  poised  over  his  mountain 
top  at  an  enormous  altitude,  wheeling  in 
small  erratic  circles,  like  an  eaglet  learning 
to  use  the  wind  under  his  broad  wings,  and 
anon  sending  his  wild  cry  out  over  the 
startled  woods. 

Clearly  something  was  wrong  with  Chep- 
lahgan. This  was  no  eaglet  calling  aloud  to 
his  unknown  mate,  or  trying  for  the  first  time 
the  eagle's  wonderful  spiral  flight ;  neither 
was  it  one  of  a  pair  of  the  royal  birds  that  I 
had  been  watching  and  following  for  weeks, 

345 


SCHOOL  Of 


Tfow 


whose  nest  and  little  ones  I  had  found  at 
last  on  a  distant  crag.  Occasionally,  as  I 
followed  them,  I  had  glimpses  of  another 
eagle,  a  huge,  solitary  old  fellow  without 
a  mate,  whose  life  had  been  a  puzzle  and  a 
mystery  to  me  all  summer.  It  was  he  who 
was  now  crying  aloud  over  the  high  moun- 
tain, where  I  had  often  seen  him  looking  out 
with  quiet  eyes  over  the  wide  splendid  domain 
that  he  ruled  no  longer,  but  had  given  over 
to  younger  eagles — his  nestlings,  perhaps — 
only  claiming  for  himself  the  right  to  stay 
and  hunt  where  he  and  his  vanished  mate 
had  so  long  held  sway.  For  most  birds  and 
beasts  of  prey  have  their  own  hunting  grounds ; 
and,  until  they  give  them  up,  none  other  goes 
a-poaching  there.  It  was  this  that  had  chiefly 
puzzled  me  all  summer.  Now  I  ran  to  a  point 
and  sat  down  quietly  against  a  weatherworn 
root  that  blended  with  the  gray  of  my  jacket, 
and  focused  my  glasses  steadily  on  Cheplah- 
gan  to  see  what  he  would  do. 

Soon  the  erratic  circles  narrowed  to  a  cen- 
ter, about  which  the  great  eagle  turned  as  on 


THE  WOODS      0 

a  pivot;  the  wild  cry  was  hushed,  and  he 
spread  his  wings  wide  and  stiff,  as  an  eagle 
does  when  resting  on  the  air.  For  several 
minutes  I  could  see  no  motion;  he  seemed  \]fl/frj//na/s 0/e 

just  a  tiny  dark  line  drawn  across  the  infinite 
blue  background.  Then  the  line  grew  longer, 
heavier;  and  I  knew  that  he  was  coming 
down  straight  towards  me. 

Lower  and  lower  he  came,  slanting  slowly 
down  in  a  long  incline  by  imperceptible 
degrees,  without  a  quiver  of  his  wide-set 
wings.  Lower  still  and  nearer,  till  I  saw 
with  wonder  that  his  head,  instead  of  being 
carried  eagle  fashion,  in  a  perfect  line  with 
body  and  tail,  drooped  forward  as  if  it  were 
heavy.  Straight  over  the  point  he  sailed, 
so  near  that  I  heard  the  faint  crackle  of  his 
pinions,  like  the  rustle  of  heavy  silk.  The 
head  drooped  lower  still ;  the  fierce,  wild  eyes 
were  half  closed  as  he  passed.  Only  once 
did  he  veer  slightly,  to  escape  a  tall  stub 
that  thrust  its  naked  bulk  above  the  woods 
athwart  his  path.  Then  with  rigid  wings  he 
crossed  the  bay  below  the  point,  still  slanting 


£  gently  down  to  earth,  and  vanished  silently 
into  the  drooping  arms  of  the  dark  woods 
beyond. 

Clearly  something  was  wrong  with  Chep- 
lahgan.  Such  an  eagle's  flight  was  never 
seen  before.  I  marked  the  spot  where  he 
disappeared,  between  two  giant  trees,  and 
followed  swiftly  in  my  canoe.  Just  within 
the  fringe  of  forest  I  found  him,  resting 
peacefully  for  the  first  time  on  mother  earth, 
his  head  lying  across  the  moss-cushioned 
root  of  an  old  cedar,  his  wings  outstretched 
among  the  cool  green  ferns  —  dead. 

Behind  my  tent  in  the  wilderness,  last 
summer,  was  a  little  spring.  I  used  to  go 
there  often,  not  to  drink,  but  just  to  sit  beside 
it  awhile  and  grow  quiet,  watching  its  cool 
waters  bubble  up  out  of  the  dark  earth  amid 
dancing  pebbles  to  steal  away  among  the 
ferns  and  mosses  on  its  errand  of  unchan- 
ging mercy.  Now  and  then,  as  I  watched, 
the  little  wild  things  would  hear  the  low 
tinkle  of  invitation  to  all  who  were  athirst, 


"A   LITTLE  WOOD  WARBLER  WAS  SITTING 
ON   A   FROND   OF  EVERGREEN" 


and  would  come  swiftly  to  drink.  Seeing 
me  they  would  draw  back  among  the  ferns  to 
watch  and  listen ;  but  the  little  rivulet  tinkled 
away  unchanged,  and  they  always  came  back 
at  last,  taking  me  shyly  for  their  friend 
because  I  sat  beside  their  spring. 

One  day  when  I  came  a  little  wood  war- 
bler was  sitting  on  a  frond  of  evergreen  that 
hung  over  the  spring  as  if  to  protect  it.  For 
several  days  I  had  noticed  him  there,  resting 
or  flitting  silently  about  the  underbrush.  He 
rarely  drank,  but  seemed  to  be  there,  as  I 
was,  just  because  he  loved  the  place.  He 
was  old  and  alone ;  the  dark  feathers  of  his 
head  were  streaked  with  gray,  and  his  feet 
showed  the  wrinkled  scales  that  age  always 
brings  to  the  birds.  As  if  he  had  learned 
the  gentleness  of  age,  he  seemed  to  have  no 
fear,  barely  moving  aside  as  I  approached,  and 
at  times  coming  close  beside  me  as  I  looked 
into  his  spring.  To-day  he  was  quieter  than 
usual ;  when  I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  take 
him  he  made  no  resistance,  but  settled  down 
quietly  on  my  finger  and  closed  his  eyes. 


35i 


ffte 
fa  finals  Die 


W     SCHOOL  OF 

For  a  half  hour  or  more  he  sat  there  con- 
tentedly,  blinking  sleepily  now  and  then,  and 
opening  his  eyes  wide  when  I  brought  him  a 

drop  of  water  on  the  tip  of  my  finger.  As 
4  ...  ,  ^  ,  „  .  .  ,  . 

twilight  came  on,  and  all  the  voices  of  the 

wood  were  hushed,  I  put  him  back  on  the 
evergreen  frond,  where  he  nodded  off  to  sleep 
before  I  went  away. 

Next  morning  he  was  closer  to  the  friendly 
spring,  on  a  lower  branch  of  the  big  ever- 
green. Again  he  nestled  down  in  my  hand 
and  drank  gratefully  the  drop  from  my  finger 
tip.  At  twilight  I  found  him  hanging  head 
down  from  a  spruce  root,  his  feet  clinched 
in  a  hold  that  would  never  loosen,  his  bill 
just  touching  the  life-giving  water.  He  had 
fallen  asleep  there,  in  peace,  by  the  spring 
that  he  had  known  and  loved  all  his  life,  and 
whose  waters  welled  up  to  his  lips  and  held 
his  image  in  their  heart  to  the  last  moment. 

How  do  the  animals  die  ?  —  quietly,  peace- 
fully, nine  tenths  of  them,  as  the  eagle  died 
in  his  own  free  element,  and  the  little  wood 


THE  WOODS      « 

warbler  by  the  spring  he  loved.  For  these 
two  are  but  types  of  the  death  that  goes  on 
in  the  woods  continually.  The  only  excep- 
tion is  in  this:  that  they  were  seen  by  too 
inquisitive  eyes.  The  vast  majority  steal 
away  into  the  solitudes  they  love  and  lay 
them  down  unseen,  where  the  leaves  shall 
presently  cover  them  from  the  sight  of  friends 
and  enemies  alike. 

We  rarely  discover  them  at  such  times,  for 
the  instinct  of  the  animal  is  to  go  away  as  far 
as  possible  into  the  deepest  coverts.  We  see 
only  the  exceptional  cases,  the  quail  in  the 
hawk's  grip,  the  squirrel  limp  and  quiet  under 
the  paw  of  cat  or  weasel;  but  the  unnum- 
bered multitudes  that  choose  their  own  place 
and  close  their  eyes  for  the  last  time,  as  peace- 
fully as  ever  they  lay  down  to  sleep,  are  hidden 
from  our  sight. 

There  is  a  curious  animal  trait  which  may 
account  for  this,  and  also  explain  why  we 
have  such  curious,  foolish  conceptions  of 
animal  death  as  a  tragic,  violent  thing.  All 
animals  and  birds  have  a  strong  distrust  and 


ffie 
vmalsD/e 


Tfo&  ffie 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

antipathy  for  any  queerness  or  irregularity 
among  their  own  kind.  Except  in  rare  cases, 
no  animals  or  birds  will  tolerate  any  cripple 
or  deformed  or  sickly  member  among  them. 
They  set  upon  him  fiercely  and  drive  him 
away.  So  when  an  animal,  grown  old  and 
feeble,  feels  the  queerness  of  some  new  thing 
stealing  upon  him  he  slips  away,  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  law  of  protection  that  he  has  noted 
all  his  life,  and,  knowing  no  such  thing  as 
death,  thinks  he  is  but  escaping  discomfort 
when  he  lies  down  in  hiding  for  the  last 
time. 

A  score  of  times,  with  both  wild  and 
domestic  animals,  I  have  watched  this  and 
wondered.  Sometimes  it  is  entirely  uncon- 
scious, as  with  an  old  bear  that  I  found  one 
summer,  who  had  laid  him  down  for  his 
winter  sleep  under  a  root,  as  usual,  but  did 
not  waken  when  the  snows  were  gone  and 
the  spring  sun  called  him  cheerily.  Some- 
times it  is  a  triumphant  sense  of  cunning,  as 
with  certain  ducks  that,  when  wounded,  dive 
and  grasp  a  root  under  water,  and  die  there, 


THE  WOODS 


thinking  how  perfectly  they  escape  their 
enemies.  Sometimes  it  is  a  faint,  unknown 
instinct  that  calls  them  they  know  not 
whither,  as  with  the  caribou,  many  of  whom 
go  far  away  to  a  spot  they  have  never  seen, 
where  generations  of  their  ancestors  have 
preceded  them,  and  there  lie  down  with  the 
larches  swaying  above  them  gently,  wonder- 
ing why  they  are  so  sleepy,  and  why  they  care 
not  for  good  moss  and  water.  And  sometimes 
it  is  but  a  blind  impulse  to  get  away,  as  many 
birds  fly  straight  out  to  sea,  till  they  can  go 
no  farther,  and  fold  their  tired  wings  and  sleep 
ere  the  ocean  touches  them. 

One  day  you  may  see  your  canary  flutter- 
ing his  unused  wings  ceaselessly  against  the 
bars  of  his  cage,  where  he  lived  so  long  con- 
tent. Were  you  wise,  you  would  open  the 
door;  for  a  call,  stronger  far  than  your  arti- 
ficial relations,  is  bidding  him  come,  —  the 
call  of  his  forgotten  ancestors.  Next  day  he 
lies  dead  on  the  floor  of  his  cage,  and  there 
is  left  for  him  only  a  burial  more  artificial 
than  his  poor  life. 


ffie 
Animals  Die 


356 


TfoM 


DIG 


¥     SCHOOL  Of 

"  But,"  some  reader  objects,  "  what  about 
the  catastrophes,  the  tragedies  ? "  There  may 
be  a  few,  possibly,  if  you  see  with  your  imagi- 
nation rather  than  with  your  eyes ;  but  they 
are  rarer  far  than  human  catastrophes.  And 
as  the  vast  majority  of  mankind  die,  not  by 
earthquake  or  famine,  but  peacefully  on  their 
beds,  so  the  vast  majority  of  wild  creatures 
die  quietly  in  beds  of  their  own  choosing. 
Except  where  man  steps  in  and  interferes 
with  the  natural  order  of  things,  or  brutally 
kills  a  brooding  or  nursing  mother,  Nature 
knows  no  tragedies.  A  partridge  falls  under 
the  owl's  swoop.  That  is  bad  for  the  par- 
tridge, —  who  is,  however,  almost  invariably 
one  of  the  weak  or  foolish  ones  who  have  not 
learned  to  be  obedient  with  his  brethren,  — 
but  there  are  two  young  owls  up  in  the  tree- 
top  yonder,  who  will  rejoice  and  be  glad  at 
the  good  dinner  brought  home  to  them  by  a 
careful  and  loving  mother. 

As  a  rule  Nature,  as  well  as  man,  protects 
her  brooding  mothers,  on  whom  helpless  lives 
depend,  with  infinite  care  and  cunning.  Even 


THE  WOODS 


the  fox  cannot  smell  them  at  such  times, 
though  he  pass  close  by.  But  should  the 
mother  fall  —  even  here  we  have  let  our 
human  imagination  run  away  with  us  —  the 
young  do  not  starve  to  death,  as  we  imagine 
pitifully.  They  cry  out  for  their  dinner;  the 
mother  is  not  near  to  hush  them,  to  tell  them 
that  silence  is  the  law  of  the  woods  for  help- 
less things.  They  cry  again;  the  crow  or 
the  weasel  hears,  and  there  is  a  speedy  end 
to  the  family  without  delay  or  suffering. 
This  is  the  way  of  the  woods. 

There  are  violent  deaths,  to  be  sure ;  but 
these  are  usually  the  most  painless  and  mer- 
ciful. A  deer  goes  down  under  the  spring 
of  a  panther  watching  above  the  runways. 
We  imagine  that  to  be  a  fearful  death,  and 
painters  have  depicted  it  in  the  colors  of 
agony.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  prob- 
ably no  pain  whatever.  Livingstone,  who 
lay  under  the  paw  of  a  lion  with  his  shoulder 
crushed  and  his  arm  gashed  with  seams 
whose  scars  he  carried  to  his  grave,  felt  no 
pain  and  did  not  even  know  that  he  was 


ffie 
vmalsDie 


9     SCHOOL  OF 

0     hurt.     He  was  the  first  to  call  attention  to 

35 

the  fact  that  the  rush  and  spring  of  a  savage 

animal  brings  a  kind  of  merciful  numbness 

"9 'f  t£>         StoR 

Slow  me7*  th  t  kills  pain  perfectly,  and  seems  also  to 
take  away  all  feeling  and  volition;  so  that 
one  is  glad  simply  to  lie  still  —  his  only 
hope,  by  the  way,  if  he  is  to  escape.  If  this 
is  true  of  men,  it  is  ten  times  more  so  of  the 
animals,  which  have  none  of  our  nervousness 
or  imagination. 

There  are  many  other  things  which  point 
to  the  same  comfortable  conclusion.  Soldiers 
in  the  rush  of  a  charge  or  the  run  of  a  retreat 
are  often  mortally  hurt  without  knowing  it 
till  they  faint  and  fall  an  hour  later.  Every 
one  has  seen  a  mouse  under  the  cat's  paw, 
and  a  toad  in  the  jaws  of  a  snake,  and  knows 
that,  so  far  as  the  stricken  creatures  are  con- 
cerned, there  is  no  suggestion  there  of  death 
or  suffering.  And  I  have  seen  larger  crea- 
tures—  rabbits  and  grouse  and  deer  —  lying 
passive  under  the  talon  or  claw  that  crushed 
them,  and  could  only  wonder  at  Nature's 
mercifulness.  Death  was  not  hard,  but  kind, 


THE  WOODS      0 

and  covered  over  with  a  vague  unreality  that 
hid  all  meaning  from  the  animals'  eyes  and 
made  them  wonder  wrhat  was  happening. 

Sometimes  the  animals  die  of  cold.  I  have 
occasionally  found,  on  bitter  mornings,  owls 
and  crows  and  little  birds  hanging  each  by 
one  claw  to  a  branch,  dead  and  frozen.  That 
is  also  a  merciful  and  painless  ending.  I 
have  been  lost  in  the  woods  in  winter.  I  have 
felt  the  delicious  languor  of  the  cold,  the  soft 
infolding  arms  of  the  snow  that  beckoned 
restfully  as  twilight  fell,  when  the  hush  was 
on  the  woods  and  human  muscles  could  act 
no  longer.  And  that  is  a  gentle  way  to  die 
when  the  time  comes. 

Sometimes  the  animals  die  of  hunger,  when 
an  ice  storm  covers  all  their  feeding  grounds. 
That  also,  as  any  one  knows  who  has  gone 
days  without  food,  is  far  more  merciful  than 
any  sickness.  Long  before  pain  comes,  a 
dozy  lassitude  blunts  the  edge  of  all  feeling. 
Sometimes  it  is  fire  or  flood ;  but  in  that  case 
the  creature  runs  away,  with  the  confidence 
that  he  always  feels  in  his  legs  or  wings,  ti 


359 


/fri/maIs  Die 


SCHOOL  OF 


me 


the  end  comes  swift  and  sure.  Those  that 
escape  huddle  together  in  the  safe  spots,  for- 
getting natural  enmities  and  all  things  else 
save  a  great  wonder  at  what  has  come  to 
pass.  In  short,  unless  the  animals  are  to  live 
always  and  become  a  nuisance  or  a  danger 
by  their  increase,  Nature  is  kind,  even  in  her 
sterner  moods,  in  taking  care  that  death 
comes  to  all  her  creatures  without  pain  or 
terror.  And  what  is  true  of  the  animals  was 
true  of  man  till  he  sought  out  many  inven- 
tions to  make  sickness  intolerable  and  death 
an  enemy. 

All  these  latter  cases,  it  is  well  to  remem- 
ber, are  the  striking  variations,  not  the  rule 
of  the  woods.  The  vast  majority  of  animals 
go  away  quietly  when  their  time  comes;  and 
their  death  is  not  recorded  because  man  has 
eyes  only  for  exceptions.  He  desires  a  mira- 
cle, but  overlooks  the  sunsets.  Something 
calls  the  creature  away  from  his  daily  round  ; 
age  or  natural  disease  touches  him  gently  in 
a  way  that  he  has  not  felt  before.  He  steals 
away,  obeying  the  old  warning  instinct  of  his 


THE  WOODS      ® 

kind,  and  picks  out  a  spot  where  they  shall 
not  find  him  till  he  is  well  again.  The  brook 
sings  on  its  way  to  the  sea;  the  waters  lap 
and  tinkle  on  the  pebbles  as  the  breeze  rocks 
them;  the  wind  is  crooning  in  the  pines, — 
the  old,  sweet  lullaby  that  he  heard  when  his 
ears  first  opened  to  the  harmony  of  the  world. 
The  shadows  lengthen ;  the  twilight  deepens ; 
his  eyes  grow  drowsy ;  he  falls  asleep.  And 
his  last  conscious  thought,  since  he  knows 
no  death,  is  that  he  will  waken  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  light  calls  him. 


ffie 
Animals  Die 


"PLUNGING   LIKE   A  GREAT  ENGINE  THROUGH 
UNDERBRUSH   AND   OVER   WINDFALLS" 


Cheokhes,  che-ok-hes',  the  mink. 

Cheplahgan,  chep-lah'gan,  the  bald  eagle. 

Ch'geegee-lokh-sis,  cWgee-gee' lock-sis,  the  chickadee. 

Chigwooltz,  chig-wooltz' ',  the  bullfrog. 

Clote    Scarpe,    a   legendary  hero,   like    Hiawatha,    of    the 

Northern  Indians.     Pronounced  variously,  Clote  Scarpe, 

Groscap,  Gluscap,  etc. 
Commoosie,  com-moo-sie! ',  a  little  shelter,  or  hut,  of  boughs 

and  bark. 

Deedeeaskh,  dee-deefask,  the  blue  jay. 
Eleemos,  el-efmos,  the  fox. 
Hawahak,  hd-wd-hdk' ',  the  hawk. 
Hukweem,  huk-weem' ',  the  great  northern  diver,  or  loon. 
Ismaques,  iss-ma-ques' ,  the  fishhawk. 
Kagax,  kagfax,  the  weasel. 
Kakagos,  kd-kd-gos' ,  the  raven. 
K'dunk,  Vdnnk',  the  toad. 
Keeokuskh,  kee-o-kusk',  the  muskrat. 
Keeonskh,  keefo-nek,  the  otter. 
Killooleet,  kil'loo-leet',  the  white- throated  sparrow. 
Kookooskoos,  koo-koo-skoos' ',  the  great  horned  owl. 
Koskomenos,  kos'kom-e-nds' ,  the  kingfisher. 
Kupkawis,  cup-kafwis^  the  barred  owl. 

363 


Kwaseekho,  kwd-seek'ho,  the  sheldrake. 
364      Lhoks,  locks,  the  panther. 
Malsun,  mal'sun,  the  wolf. 
Meeko,  meek'o,  the  red  squirrel. 
Megaleep,  meg'd-leep,  the  caribou. 
Milicete,  mil't-cete,  the  name  of    an  Indian  tribe  ;   written 

also  Malicete. 

Hitches,  mit'chgs,  the  birch  partridge,  or  ruffed  grouse. 
Moktaques,  mok-td'ques,  the  hare. 
Mooween,  moo-ween',  the  black  bear. 
Musquash,  mus'qutish,  the  muskrat. 
Nemox,  ngm'ox,  the  fisher. 
Pekquam,  pek-ivdm' ',  the  fisher. 
Quoskh,  quoskh,  the  blue  heron. 
Seksagadagee,    sek'sd-ga-da'gee,    the     Canada    grouse,    or 

spruce  partridge. 
Skooktum,  skook'tum,  the  trout. 
Tookhees,  tok'hees,  the  wood  mouse. 
Umquenawis,  uui-qiie-na'fwis,  the  moose. 
Unk  Wunk,  unk'  wunk,  the  porcupine. 
Upweekis,  up-week'iss,  the  Canada  lynx. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORRO 

BIOLOGY  LIBRARY 

TEL.  NO.  642-2532 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

F     1 


I96JJ 


MAR  12  19691 


JUH     8  1971 


DAVIS 


INTERLIBRARY  LOAN 


MAY  19  1971 


JUN14197I 


LD  21A-12m-5,'68 
(J401slO)476 


General  Librar 
University  of  Calu 
Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


J 

:    !    :•../ iii    H       ; 


